If Padmé Lived
by ellachar16
Summary: The original trilogy if Padmé had survived with some minor plot modifications- one, Padmé nearly died in childbirth, but to save her, she was frozen in carbonite for eighteen years. And two, Darth Vader has gotten surgeries to repair what Obi-Wan had done to him, though he still wears his suit and mask.
1. Resurrection

She wakes up to white.

It surrounds her. She finds herself staring up into a ceiling—but it feels like she is staring into nothingness, like she is caught in a void. Her ears are filled with a symphony of mechanical humming noises and the steady beep of something beside her. She tries to say something, but her lips struggle against the weariness that takes over her body.

"Padmé?"

Her eyes zero in on a robed figure sauntering to her side. Their face is familiar, and yet her mind cannot register who they are. Their hair is snow white to match the stubble across their jaw, and they have wrinkles across their forehead and around their eyes and lips. But those eyes—they are crystal blue and wise—strike her. She knows them.

When she finally musters the strength to speak, she says, "Obi Wan?" He nods. "Why are you—"

"So old?" he finishes her sentence with a smile. But it does not reach his eyes. His face relaxes, and when it does, she sees only graveness. "Padmé . . . you've been frozen in carbonite for a long, long time."

"What?"

"You almost died in childbirth. The only way to save you—and protect you—was to freeze you in carbonite. Your body was able to heal in hibernation," Obi Wan explains.

"How long?" There is a long, eerie pause. "How long, Obi Wan?" Padmé demands.

"Eighteen years."

His words seem to stop time and turn the air around her into a sea. It's like she's drowning for a few moments, unable to breathe, unable to speak. She does not find herself for several moments—she has gone under into the dark deep, falling into an abyss—

Obi Wan steadies her with the soft touch of his hand on her shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry. We had to protect you from Darth Vader."

"Darth Vader?" she asks. Trembling, she sits up on her bed.

"Who Anakin has become," Obi Wan tells her solemnly.

There is a pang in her chest at his name. "And the children? Where are they? Where are Luke and Leia?" she asks, trying to avoid the subject of Anakin. It has been eighteen years, but to her, it feels like only a few hours ago that he crushed her heart with one hand.

"Luke is on Tatooine, with his family. I have watched over him there for the past couple of decades. He is a strong boy, Padmé," says Obi Wan. "And as for Leia, she was adopted by Bail and Breha Organa—she is the princess of Alderaan. We had to split them up and raise them separately to protect them. If Vader knew—"

"If _Anakin_ knew," Padmé corrects him.

"—they would be turned to the dark side. They are our last hope, Padmé. Anakin hunted down and destroyed all of the Jedi, except myself and Yoda. We must restore the galaxy to how it was before the Sith took over."

"Why awaken me now, Obi Wan? What's changed?" she asks him.

"The time is right," he says. "It's time to take back the galaxy. There is a rebellion growing. It has become very strong—there is hope that we may be able to overthrow the Empire."

"What role do you hope I will play in this?"

"You very experienced in all things politics, not to mention combat. We will be reuniting your children soon and training them as Jedi," says Obi Wan.

"Until the time is right—exactly right—where will I go?" asked Padmé. She knew that she would have to hide from Anakin, no matter how much she hated the idea. "It wouldn't be safe for me to go back to Naboo, would it? Or Coruscant?"

Obi Wan shook his head. "No, not to stay there for a long period of time. Perhaps for a visit—a _short_ visit." There is a grim, tense pause. "I was thinking you could move every six months, to ensure that no one on any planets become too familiar with you. I plan on you being away for perhaps a year, until the rebellion progresses enough. Iridonia and Corellia may be suitable."

"May I visit Naboo, for just a week or less, every few months?" she asks.

With reluctance and a sigh, Obi Wan nods. "I doubt I will be able to stop you."

She nods in turn. With a tremor running through her body, still heavy from hibernation, she rises from her bed and saunters to the mirror on the wall. Peering at herself, she sees exactly what she remembers—chocolate curls of hair, dark eyes, supple skin, a soft, young face. She has not aged a single day.

"If it's been eighteen years—" she begins, but Obi Wan cuts her off.

"Your body was in hibernation, so the years that have passed did not touch you," Obi Wan explains.

Padmé, staring in shock at herself, nods once more, trying to keep herself steady. "I should get ready to go, then. To Iridonia."

x x x

Padmé Amidala spends the next six months living in Iridonia. She feels like an alien, an outsider, there. She keeps to herself in a cottage behind a strip of hills where a crystal river snakes through. The days run by her like background noise, and it is like she is falling through thin, sharply cold air. After the six months pass and she is finally familiar with the planet and the community she lives in, she leaves to maintain her safety as Obi Wan said. Between moving from Iridonia to Corellia, Padmé boards her ship to travel to Naboo.

She clutches a suitcase in her hand—her knuckles are stark white in all of the tension stiffening every muscle in her body. She feels the risk deep within her, and yet the wistfulness to see her home planet wins her over.

Before taking off, she rests her hands on the control panel, lowering her eyes to the active button. She remembers sitting here on Mustfar, before—

 _No,_ she tells herself. _Stop that. Block it out._

Even as she commands herself not to think about it, her thoughts flow in an endless stream. They are relentless, even as she covers them with thoughts of how the sun will feel on her skin when she is back on Naboo. They are cruel thoughts.

Endless blackness falls past the ship in sheets. To stare out the windshield of her ship is to stare into abyss, into oblivion. Pulling the lever back into lightspeed, she takes a deep breath to break down the tension in her body. But it is a stubborn thing—it remains.

When she lands on Naboo, no one asks any questions. She is not given strange looks. She is like a shadow, invisible and silent, as she moves through the streets of her small hometown. It is nothing compared to the city she once served as queen in—perhaps that is why she has not been recognized, or because it has been nearly a whole new generation. It's a good thing—it is peaceful to be calm for a moment in a world where she is constantly gripped by fear.

One small suitcase trailing behind her, she makes her way down the rocky, rugged path drawn in the grass to a quaint cottage by the sea. This secluded place reminds her of the island she used to swim out to as a girl—all of the sand, rough against her skin, and the salt in the air. Before opening the door to the cottage, she casts her gaze out to the shore, where the waves crash and roar. For a moment, her mind breaks free and roams back to all those years ago, when she was under Anakin's protection. She remembers standing with him on the balcony and watching the sea and kissing him—his lips were soft and tasted like the sea—

She has to stop herself as she turns the knob to the cottage, shutting her eyes in frustration.

x x x

After a few days, her stay on Naboo has become a lonely one. It is empty—she can speak to no one, she can go nowhere but her secluded island. There are only the waves and the sand and the sun. Nothing more. She yearns to see her old friends and her family—her mother, her father. If they are even still alive. She has no way of knowing, because she is completely and forever alone. And she realizes, with a pang in her chest, that this is her new reality for as long as her heart beats. A part of her wanted to hate Anakin for it, but she couldn't, because she knows that she still loves him, regardless. And there is nothing she can do to change that.

She wonders if he still loves her, or if he even remembers her. It feels like only a matter of months to Padmé, but it has truly been a little over eighteen years to Anakin.

On the third night of her stay, she dreams of him.

 _The two of them are in the fields of Naboo, a sky full of daylight and cotton clouds. It is something of a paradise, with its beauty and Anakin and all. They are laughing over some ridiculous joke Anakin made, gazing into each other's eyes. They are full of light Padmé thought she had forgotten._

 _"_ _Don't say that in front of the children," Padmé giggles._

 _"_ _Never," says Anakin, a childish grin curling up the corner of his lips._

 _"_ _I love you," Padmé says before leaning in to kiss him._

 _The last thing she sees is his hand reaching for the side of her cheek and his eyes, the same color of the Naboo sky._

She awakens from her dream crying. Tears soak her cheeks like raindrops—they are sticky and hot and they seem to drown her with every breath she takes. "Anakin," she says, the words cutting into the air, raspy and dry, from her trembling lips. The sound of his name claws her apart from the inside and out. Her hands grab the sheets in fistfuls as she tries to keep herself steady. But there is nothing but chaos—tonight, she will not sleep peacefully again.

"I love you," Padmé repeats the words from her dream. And when she says them, it is like she is letting everything go and extending out far, far into the galaxy, as if she is trying to reach out and touch Anakin with her fingertips.

"I always will."

( _Even if you are a monster like Obi Wan seems to think,_ she adds in her head.)

x x x

She boards her ship a few days later and heads off to what will become her new home for the next six months: Corellia. As she sits in the pilot seat, her mind drifts off into the future for a moment, in a time where she will be reunited with her children and Anakin—the Anakin she knew, not Darth Vader. The _real_ Anakin. Taking off, she sighs and asks herself, over and over again, how it all ended up this way. But she can never find an answer she wants to accept. She doesn't think there is one anymore, not after going over the topic again and again, no matter how hard she tries not to think of it. These thoughts are like ghosts—they haunt, they stick, they never quite fade away as they are supposed to.

Many minutes later, perhaps an hour, Padmé has exited lightspeed and is no approaching Corellia soon. She has seen the planet before from the window of her ship while traveling elsewhere, and in maps. It reminds her of Naboo or Alderaan, with all of its blue and green and white pouring over it like runny paint.

But then something else catches her attention.

It looks like a small moon of some sort, but according to the map on the control panel of her ship, it is uncharted. _If it isn't a moon,_ she thinks, _what could it be?_ Out of curiosity—and perhaps some foolishness, too—Padmé switches off of autopilot and drives closer to the strange moon-like mass. Once she is close enough, she can see that it is most certainly not a moon.

It is a space station.

Made up of metal with short-range ships encircling it—it could be nothing else but a space station.

Just as her ship trembles against the force of a tractor beam, she feels ice creep over her body and she knows that she is in danger. Padmé tries to put her ship in reverse, but it struggles to no avail in the tractor beam. There is no escape. She knows that deep down. Because this can only be an Imperial space station. It could not be so large and powerful if it was not.

Her heart throbs within her chest. She is not going to make it out of this one.

When her ship lands, she is greeted by a horde of Stormtroopers and commanders. The hanger is all dark gray and the suits of the commanders and other Imperial personnel blend in with the walls. Padmé had never thought much of hell, or what it would look like. But she thinks that in this moment, she is staring it in the face. She is feeling its fire just inches away from her flesh.

One of the commanders motions a group of Stormtroopers to her ship. She bites her lip and balls her hands into fists, knowing that she will be taken prisoner. Knowing that potentially, she could die. She could die, and she wouldn't be able to protect her children or see them again . . . or see Anakin again.

The door bursts open. She whips around, her long braid flying against the seat, to see Stormtroopers heading her way. Despite knowing that fighting is hopeless, she pulls out her gun from the holster on her belt, but the moment she does, it is taken from her by one of the Stormtroopers. They grab her by the arms and shove her into the hanger, where a commander awaits.

He straightens his collar and clears his throat. "What is your time?" he demands.

"Padmé," she replies.

"Your _full_ name," the commander growls back impatiently.

"Padmé Amidala," she says reluctantly.

The commander furrows his brow. "The name sound strangely familiar," he says, and then turns to one of the men in gray next to him. "Look up Padmé Amidala in the computer and give me a full report immediately."

"What is your business in this area of space?" the commander questions further.

"I was going to Corellia."

"Why?"

"Because I was moving there," Padmé deadpans.

One of the Stormtroopers clears his throat. "Um, sir," he says. The commander turns to him, and the Stormtrooper hands him Padmé's weapon. The commander scrutinizes it closely, squinting in curiosity and puzzlement.

"This is an old weapon," he says. "From the times of the Old Republic. Where did you possibly dig up this old fossil?"

"I've just always had it," Padmé responds simply.

"There is something off about this one," the commander says to the Stormtroopers. "This ship is of a design only made for Naboo royals. Perhaps she is a smuggler or a thief. I want a search crew aboard immediately, bring me everything they find. In the meantime—"

The commander is interrupted by the man in a gray suit identical to his own, carrying a paper in his hand. He gives it to the commander, who reads it aloud. "Padmé Amidala. Twenty-six years old. _Deceased._ Born 47 BBY, Naboo. Died 19 BBY, Polis Massa, from strangulation. Served as queen . . . and a senator . . ."

He looks up in absolute astonishment. "This report claims that you died eighteen and a half years ago. And yet, it has your photo. _Explain._ "

Padmé holds her silence.

"Perhaps you will respond to a different kind of interrogation," he says, and then turns to the Stormtroopers. "Take her to the detention center. And inform Lord Vader we have a prisoner—perhaps he will be interested in a dead Nabian queen."


	2. The Man In the Mask

Darth Vader spent the day with crossed arms. He had become very annoyed and displeased with the generals, commanders, admirals, and the like, on his Star Destroyer. They were all, "Sorry Lord Vader," "Excuse me, Lord Vader," "My apologies, Lord Vader," instead of getting anything done. Instead of crushing the rebellion. He stares out the window of the Star Destroyer, looking into the darkness and into the stars. Among it all is the planet of Naboo—like a sphere painted with green and blue and white water colors, all blended into a masterpiece. He does not like to look at it, and yet he cannot tear his eyes away. The sight of it alone brings up bad memories and—pain?

Yes, pain. That is what tears through his chest from the depths of his heart. (He could have sworn he had forgotten that he had one.) Over the years, he has become cavernous—absolutely hollow and cold, cold, cold. Absolutely ruthless. And yet, when the thought of her returns to his mind, he cannot help but feel anguish.

Time does not heal all wounds.

 _Padmé_ , her name breaks through his skull like a bullet. He tries not to think of her, to bury what happened, just because it's easier to bear. She's gone because of him—he killed her. He carries that weight on his shoulders, and it is a weight that wears. He prefers to drown the memories and feelings in rage and blood.

Just as he thinks he is about to break, one of his men saunters up to him.

"What do you want?" he growls through his mask.

"Lord Vader, we have received word from the Death Star that they have taken a new prisoner."

"And?"

"She is very out of the ordinary."

"A rebel?"

"We are unsure, but she will be interrogated soon enough."

"If no progress has been made, why have you come to me with this information?" snaps Vader. He can feel the fear in the informant, rising and spreading to every fiber of his miserable being.

"Lord Vader, we looked her up in the computer. It claims that she is a former Nabian queen and a former senator of Naboo in the Old Republic. And that she died," he says, "eighteen and a half years ago from strangulation."

 _And that she died eighteen and a half years ago._

 _Former Nabian queen._

 _Former senator of the Old Republic._

 _Strangulation._

No. It can't be.

Could it?

He swears his chest is caving in on itself—he knows that it is impossible that the prisoner could possibly be her, and yet he can feel a glimmer of hope.

"What is the prisoner's name?" Darth Vader demands.

"Padmé Amidala," he replies.

And then it feels like the galaxy is falling all around him. His mind is saying _no no no no no no_ and calling the informant's bluff over and over like a broken record, but every other part of him says something completely different. And if Vader has learned anything from his training, it is to trust his feelings and his senses over his mind.

So he does.

"Prepare my shuttle for the Death Star _immediately,_ " Vader orders.

"Yes, Lord Vader," the informant replies, and marches away.

x x x

She was unsure of how much time had passed since she had been placed in a cell. Perhaps two hours, or a little less. It is uncomfortable to sit on a steel bench and lean against a steel wall for so long at a time—she couldn't imagine what it would feel like sleeping here, but she supposed that she would find out.

And then the door opens.

It reveals a creature—a man?—in a dark suit with a mask and a cape that just barely trails onto the floor. He enters the cell, the door closing behind him. He pauses, as if he is stunned. His mask obscures everything—she can't tell if he is staring at her or not, or what he feels.

Despite the fear sinking its claws into every piece of her, she crosses her arms over her chest defiantly and says, "What, no torture device? Not even a few Stormtroopers?"

He seems to ignore her remark. "You're alive," he says. Perhaps it was supposed to sound soft or meaningful or human, but the words come out flat and cold, morphed into steel by the mask.

She wants to say, _"I'm not supposed to be."_ Because it's true—she is supposed to be lying in a casket with a crushed throat and a baby bump, but here she is.

"Clearly," Padmé replies instead.

"How," he says, taking a step toward her, "is this possible?"

She backs into the wall of her cell, but there is nowhere to go, no hideaway to fall into. "Who . . . who are you? What do you want? Why am I here—I'm not a rebel, I—"

"Take a guess," he seems to joke. But it strikes her like a blade. When Padmé is silent, he says, "Padmé, I . . ."

"Who are you?" she asks again.

He seems almost afraid, she thinks, by the way he is standing and his posture, the way he carries himself.

"Darth Vader," he tells her.

Her heart

stops.

And it becomes heavy beneath the weight of the ugly truth.

 _"_ _No,"_ Padmé says, frantically shaking her head. "No no no no no no _no!_ " she says louder, pushing her back into the wall as if she could make it melt to let her get at least a few more inches away from him—from Anakin. She never thought she would recoil from him, and she hates the words that spill from her lips, she hates trying to get away away away—but she knows that she must protect Luke and Leia. (And herself.)

And then suddenly, she is crying.

The tears burn into her cheeks with a fury she has never known before. They come in vicious, relentless waves, crashing over her without mercy. She has lost all control over herself. Her emotions reign free, and they bend her into a broken state.

He removes the mask, revealing the face she knew over eighteen years ago. He has aged perhaps five years or a little more—the same auburn and flaxen curls, the same sky blue eyes, the same handsome face. She didn't know what she expected to see when he took off the mask, but she certainly did not expect this. She did not expect _her_ Anakin.

"Padmé," he says again.

The sobbing does not recede; it deepens, it grows. But she is not trying to back into the wall anymore. Instead, she is pressed into the corner of the bench, trying to gather her breaths together to stop her from trembling to fiercely.

"Padmé," Anakin repeats once more, his voice softening into familiarity. Into the voice she remembers. He steps towards her and places his hands gently against her cheeks, running his fingers along their hollows and the line of her jaw.

She hardly knows what she's doing—she feels numb, like she is drowning in cold water within a strange, twisted dream. It is a beautiful dream, but nightmarish, too. She is afraid and her heart is pounding in her chest and she needs to protect her children and—

And she's kissing him.

It is an action born from pure impulse. She kisses him, not fully comprehending what it means, only knowing that she misses him, loves him—can't bear to let him go. She drowns in his arms, wrapped around her in an embrace. Padmé expects him to be cold, the way she imagines his heart to be, iced over like the ground in the winter. But he is warm the way she remembers him to be.

She does not know how long it is before she pulls her lips away from his. Their faces are still only inches apart, and he doesn't let go of her. She looks up to see that he is crying, too—a pair of rivulets leak from his eyes and drip down his cheeks.

"How are you here? I . . . I was told that . . . that _I_ killed you," he says.

Her mind flickers back to Mustafar—her heart seems to crumple like a piece of paper in her heart.

"I was supposed to die in childbirth because . . . ." she does not want to say, _"because of you."_ So she doesn't. "Because of complications."

"That I caused," Anakin says. He states it like a fact.

Padmé lowers her gaze to the ground in silence. It is a twisted feeling that grows within her—wanting to burst into tears and run away and hide but love him and protect him from what he did at the same time.

His hands move down to hers. "You—what I did—has haunted me for eighteen years, I—" he can't seem to speak; his lips struggle against eighteen years of pent up anguish all being released at once by the sight of Padmé alone.

"I thought I killed you, Padmé," Anakin says at last.

 _You were supposed to._

It is a hideous thought, but she knows it's true.

But then she remembers what she said just before she went unconscious— _"Obi Wan . . . there's good in him. I know . . . there's . . . still . . . ."_

Does she still believe that?

She hopes so.

"But I didn't," she offers. "I'm still here."

Anakin's eyes are fixed on the ground, even as he speaks. "My offer still stands." And his gaze meets hers.

She knows what he means the moment he looks at her, and yet she still asks, in disbelief, "What?"

"Come with me," Anakin says. "You could, you know. We could be together."

She cannot deny that it sounds tempting, to be with Anakin again, but she knows better than that. (Mind over heart.) Padmé shakes her head—and the feelings she had on Mustafar come rushing back. "No," she tells him. Her voice trembles as she speaks. "No. I— _never_."

"You still believe Obi Wan?" he asks accusingly. And that is when he completely pulls away from her, rising back up and crossing his arms over his chest.

"It wasn't Obi Wan who made me think this way," Padmé argues. "It was _you._ It was you and what you told me on Mustafar."

 _("And we can rule the galaxy. Make things the way we want them to be!"_

 _"_ _I don't know you anymore.")_

"Is what Obi Wan said a lie? Did you not kill younglings? Did you not turn to the dark side? Did you not hunt down and murder the Jedi? Did you not build an Empire, stealing the freedom of billions of people, with a man ten times as sinister as he could ever make you?" she fires back, the words rushing out of her mouth uncontrollably.

"I did," Anakin replies flatly.

"I will not side with you," she tells him. "I will not set foot on the dark path you have taken."

"But it doesn't matter what I want, does it?" she asks. "You'll keep me here, anyway, Empress or not. You'll never let me go."

His silence and his gaze, burning into the wall behind Padmé, proves that she is right.

"How could you expect me to let you go after all this time?"

"I don't," Padmé says. "It's true when I said that I don't know you anymore all those years ago. I don't now, even more so."

"You do, I—" he begins, but Padmé cuts him off.

"There's good in you, Anakin, there is!" she begins to plead with him. "You could come back with me if you wanted to. You could be the man I married—the man I love."

"You don't love me?" he asks, in that same accusing tone that breaks her to the bone.

"I do love you," Padmé tells him. "I could never stop loving you. But I don't love what you've become. I don't love Darth Vader. I love Anakin."

"I'm not Anakin anymore," he snaps. Vader whips around and exits the cell, anger coursing through every vein in his body. But there is sadness, too, mixed in with it all.

It's been eighteen years, but Anakin is not the boy she knew on Tatooine, or the man she married on Naboo. He is a Sith Lord. She can see it in the fire that blazes in his eyes.


	3. What You've Become

Padmé feels as if she is rotting.

She doesn't know how many days have gone by. Perhaps it has only been one. Or two. Or three.

Anakin hasn't visited her for a while. Possibly because he is too busy wreaking havoc and terror upon the galaxy, or because he is wary to return to Padmé after their previous discussion—maybe it's a mixture of the two.

She let herself cry a few times. Since she is alone, she feels free to do what she wants inside her cell, from punching walls in frustration to sobbing until her lungs feel broken and her eyes are dry. Padmé feels absolutely torn between two feelings—love and resentment. She wants to hate Anakin, or Vader, or whatever darkness he has become, but she knows that she can't. She never could.

Padmé has run the scene over and over in her head, and every time she does she asks herself the same questions. It is like running her head into a wall over and over again. She seems to know all the answers—except for why he wears a mask and why he seems to have aged only a few years. He looks to be in his late twenties, twenty-seven to twenty-nine, rather than twenty-two. But it has been eighteen years. How could this be possible?

But then again, she had survived carbon freeze for eighteen years, hadn't she?

The morning of whatever the date was—she had no way of knowing—she was brought new clothes. It was a white dress that flowed with her movements like water, embellished with delicate lace along the shoulders and back. It is not the Empire's style at all, from what she can tell from all of the gray and black of the Death Star. When she puts it on, she feels cold. The fabric feels alien and raises goosebumps along her skin, or maybe that's just the atmosphere of the Death Star.

A few minutes after she is dressed, the door to her cell opens. She shudders at the harsh noise of the door sliding upwards from its place in the ground, but softens, to her surprise, at the sight of Anakin. _Anakin,_ not Darth Vader. He does not wear the mask or the suit, just robes that remind her of the ones he wore when he was a Jedi, the only difference being that they are black as the empty space outside the window.

She doesn't know if she should recoil or if she should run into his arms. Half of her wants to do the former, and the other half screams for the latter. She compromises by standing her ground and folding her arms below her chest.

"You're different today," she says quietly.

"Different?" Anakin inquires.

"No mask," replies Padmé. "Why do you wear it, anyway?"

"I'm sure Obi-Wan wouldn't have told you," says Anakin darkly. There is a shift in his face, like he has been transported to a time far back in the past. His eyes become distant. And then they become angry. An uprising of fire glares in their crystal blue depths, but it vanishes as soon as it comes.

"What wouldn't he have told me?" she pries.

"What he did to me," Anakin says. It is almost a growl. "He didn't tell you that he pushed me down a slope and let the lava ignite every single inch of my skin? He didn't tell you that he left me there to die?"

The breath leaves her lungs all at once. There is no gradual, soft exhale of her lungs. It's like his words have wrapped a coil around her neck, and she's struggling to breathe.

She doesn't want to believe him. She can't.

Like how she couldn't believe that Anakin had turned to the dark side—that he had killed younglings and helped hunt down the Jedi. It turned out to be true, didn't it?

Denial is pointless, and yet she always seems to find herself looking to it for a soft place to land every time she falls.

Padmé shakes her head. "Then . . . then how are you—"

"While undergoing reconstruction of my body and appearance, to repair it to how it was before the immolation, I wore the mask to hide what Obi-Wan had made of me," he explains. "Now it serves as a part of Darth Vader. It feels odd not to have it."

"Obi-Wan . . . he—he couldn't, no, not to you—"

"And yet he did," snaps Anakin.

His tone turns her body to stone for a moment—every muscle within her becomes tense and rigid. He seems to notice the change, because the steel in his face softens, and he says, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be so cold."

Padmé shakes her head, trying to brush off the conflict stirring within her. She is torn between Obi-Wan and Anakin, between light and darkness. She wants to turn away and say that he is lying, but deep in her gut, she knows that he is telling the truth.

"Did you come here just to see me, or is there something more to it than that?" she asks, trying to steer the subject away from the dark, cold past that has crept its way back into their heads.

"Both," Anakin says. He looks down and then back up again, meeting her eyes with his own. "I don't want you to be a prisoner, Padmé."

 _(Then let me go.)_

"What _do_ you want?" she asks him.

He takes a step forward. "Us," Anakin replies. "I want us to be together. I want us to be happy, like we were before."

 _(Then come back. Come back to the way you were before you turned.)_

Padmé knows that it will never be that way again, but she doesn't say it because she knows that it would hurt him. And in spite of everything he has done and everything he plans to do, she can't bear to cause him harm.

"What is your plan, then, to make that happen?" she inquires.

"You will come with me on my shuttle to my Star Destroyer. We can be happy there. We can be together."

 _It sounds like I don't have a choice,_ she thinks to herself. She nearly says the words aloud, but she catches herself and bites her tongue.

So instead, she says, "Now? Today?"

Anakin nods.

"And you don't . . . you don't have to accept my ways right away. In time, you will," he tells her, almost reluctantly. "But I can't make you. I've realized that."

 _But you're wrong. I never will accept what you've become,_ Padmé says to herself.

She just nods and remains silent, holding in everything she wants to say because she knows that if she did say it, Anakin would just storm out and refuse to change. She knows that no progress would be made, at least not right away, not just like that.

He offers her his hand, and almost reflexively, she takes it.

In the moments that they walk out of the cell and down the hallway together, Padmé realizes a possible escape: his heart. She knows that despite anything he might say or do, he still has one, beating away in his chest, calling out for her. If she could sway Anakin to trust her, to think that she is coming around, she could escape, perhaps just in time to be reunited with her children. Part of her doesn't ever want to leave him, but the other half knows that she must if the galaxy is to have any hope of overcoming the darkness that has overtaken it.

x x x

On Anakin's shuttle, it is quiet for a few minutes into the journey. The silence sets her on edge, makes her stomach turn. She hates not knowing what Anakin is thinking, not knowing what he is feeling. She is almost always able to tell when he speaks to her, but when he is silent, she gets near to nothing. Sometimes Padmé wishes that she could feel the Force, too, and reach for his feelings whenever she wanted, as he could do to her.

He must sense her unease, radiating off of her like a foul stench, because he says, "What are you so worried about, Padmé?"

"You're quiet," she says. "You're too quiet."

"I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Can I ask you a question?" he asks.

Padmé nods.

"The child," Anakin says. He looks at her with a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "You survive. Did the child survive, too?"

Padmé turns cold. Her stomach turns and then drops, and her tongue twists within her mouth. Horrible sadness and regret washes over her, because she knows what she is about to say, and she knows that it will hurt him. But she must. There is no other option. She feels absolutely trapped, even when she conjures up the courage to say it.

"No. No, he—he didn't make it. The umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck." The words taste bitter on her tongue.

And then she sees it, the agony, running through him like a blade. It begins in his eyes and rips down to his face, and then to his body, right down to his trembling hands.

There is a pause, when Anakin is composing himself and trying to find the right words.

"Did he have a name?" Anakin asks suddenly.

"Yes," Padmé tells him. "His name was Luke."

"Luke," he repeats, a smile flickering across his face. His eyes are dark with sadness, as are Padmé's, for different reasons. Anakin lost his son; Padmé lost her love.

She doesn't dare go into further details, especially not about Leia. Revealing just one and their false fate was enough.

Anakin is silent for a moment, lost in the haze of his thoughts. And then he says, "We could have more, you know."

Padmé immediately shakes her head. "No," she says. She catches the words that nearly follow— _No, you'd turn them to the dark side._ But she knows better. "I don't want to replace Luke. He can't be replaced."

"It wouldn't be like that," Anakin says softly, perhaps trying to comfort her.

"It would be to me."

The conversation about their children ends there in deafening silence. But they spark up a new one in its fall.

"Padmé, how did you survive?" Anakin asks suddenly. "How could I no longer feel that you were alive?"

"I was supposed to die in childbirth," she responds after a moment of hesitation. "But it wasn't because of you, I was told. It was because of unknown causes—they thought I lost the will to live, but that wasn't true. I ended up living, somehow. But I lost consciousness and I was frozen in carbonite—maybe that's what saved me. I was in hibernation, so time couldn't touch me. I was awakened only six months ago."

Anakin is silent, as if he is pondering what she said in his head.

"Can I ask _you_ a question?" says Padmé, trying to get the topic out of Anakin's mind.

He laughs and replies, "Is this a trade?"

She smiles slightly, but it doesn't touch her eyes. "Maybe." The ghost of playfulness lingers in her tone when she speaks.

"How are you, you know . . . not old? You've only aged what, seven or eight years? It's been eighteen."

"The Emperor," he answers. "He taught me how to manipulate the Force to achieve eternal life. The only caveat is that you can't do this for yourself, only others. So I keep the Emperor immortal with the power he taught me, and in return he does the same for me."

"This is the power you wanted," Padmé says gravely. "The one you turned for."

Anakin nods.

 _But you didn't save me, you saved yourself._

"The Sith have powers the Jedi thought to be unnatural," Anakin tells her. "I have become more powerful than any Jedi could ever be. Just like I promised."

The words sink in cold, into her skin and her bones. She remembers when he said that, all those years ago on Tatooine, when his mother died. He promised Padmé that he would be the most powerful Jedi— _One day, I will become the greatest Jedi_ ever. _I will even learn how to stop people from dying._

But he broke that promise, in a way, because he is no longer a Jedi. And yet, the title _Sith_ sits on him strangely. It sounds out of place to Padmé, but perhaps that is just because a part of her is still in denial.

 _"_ _You're not all powerful, Ani,"_ she once told him.

 _"_ _Well, I should be,"_ he said in response.

She wished he had listened to her when she said that.

By the time silence overtakes them again, they have landed in the hanger of Anakin's Star Destroyer.


	4. The City In the Clouds

Two months have passed since Padmé was reunited with Anakin. With every day, she grows more and more afraid that she will never be able to see Luke and Leia again, but more and more attached to Anakin at the same time.

The time seems right for her to escape. She is only waiting for the exact moment now. Padmé goes wherever she pleases, though she is usually at Anakin's side. She doesn't like to be without him, because everyone else in the Star Destroyer makes her wary, and she is afraid that if he goes away for too long, he will never come back.

Days ago, she went through the archives of systems. Bespin caught her eye, namely the Cloud City that rested in its skies. She's decided that she will escape to there. Before today, she had been slowly placing her bags into her ship discreetly.

Anakin had to be pulled away to deal with something—something he wouldn't tell her about, but she suspected that it was the rebellion. He was on another planet now, far away from here.

Padmé wears white leggings, dark brown boots, a gray shirt with a burgundy jacket, and long fingerless gloves to match. Her hair is in a long, elaborate braid down her back, and her face is polished with simple makeup. She wears the necklace Anakin gave her all those years ago, the japor snippet he carved into a pendant. Padmé clutches it in her hand as she walks toward her ship in the hanger. Anakin had brought it here a long time ago, but she had never needed to use it until now, until her escape.

It was easy—almost too easy—to walk past Stormtroopers, commanders, admirals, and other Imperial puppets, and not fear that they would stop her. Perhaps they were afraid of questioning things that she did because her agenda was supposed to match Anakin's. One commander did look up at her inquisitively, but she struck down his curiosity with, "Darth Vader has requested that I handle the disagreement on Geonosis." It wasn't a lie that there was conflict going on between the Empire and the government of Geonosis, but Padmé had not been asked to handle anything.

The commander shudders at the sharpness of her tone, and then nods, letting her pass to her ship without any questions.

When she boards her ship, her stomach turns over. Before flying away into deep space, Padmé takes one more look at the Star Destroyer, and everything she will leave behind. But she knows that her decision is right—she must be reunited with Luke and Leia if the Empire is to be crushed.

And with that, she takes off to Bespin. She does not look back.

x x x

When she lands on a platform of the Cloud City of Bespin, she is greeted by a small group of men with blasters in their belts. They are lead by a man in a blue shirt, black pants, and a gold and blue cape that billows in the air off his back. He is dark—skin the color of coffee and hair and eyes like coal—and handsome and young, perhaps in his late twenties.

Padmé lowers the ramp of her ship and saunters out into the platform, her hand flying up to her necklace for a moment. She runs the tip of her finger over the shallow grooves in the japor and then lets her arm fall back down to her side.

"What brings you to the Cloud City, Miss . . ?" says the man in the cape when she walks out onto the platform. His eyes flit up and down her figure, but linger on her face.

"Padmé," she tells him, finishing his sentence. "I enjoy travel and adventure, so I've decided to move somewhere new—here."

"Lando Calrissian," he introduces himself in turn and reaches out his hand to take hers. He brings it up to his lips and kisses the back of her hand gently—she isn't sure if it's a greeting or a flirtation or both. "You definitely look like you belong here in the clouds with us," he compliments. "I could show you around and help you settle in?"

Padmé smiles kindly, brushing off his flirtations. "I don't think I'll need much assistance," she says, "though a tour would be very kind of you."

Lando grins. "It's settled, then," he tells her, and offers her his arm. Instead of taking it, Padmé raises an eyebrow and sashays forward into the entrance, Lando following. He soon takes the lead, but the rejection is clear enough that he does not try anything again this time.

Everything is white, gold, or blue in the Cloud City. Along the streets and sidewalks, full of vehicles and people, elegant buildings clustered together reach up to the skies. Inside of the main building, everything is pristine and white, from the polished floors to the ceiling. There are endless rooms, from bedrooms to dining and dance halls. Padmé can see the pride in Lando's eyes as he shows her the main building and the view of the city out the window, like a child showing off their favorite golden trophy. And yet, at the same time, she can see the protectiveness in his face and in his voice. The way he smiles at the people who pass him, the way he speaks to his staff—he is a responsible leader.

After the tour, Lando leads her to one of the guest rooms in the main building. Before opening the door for her, he says, "You can stay here until you figure things out. I'll have my men get your bags for you."

"That really isn't—" Padmé begins to protest.

Lando waves it away. "Really, really, I've got it handled," he assures her before turning away and disappearing down the hallway.

Padmé enters the room and closes the door behind her. The walls are mostly made up of broad windows, the floors are polished white tile like the rest of the main building. She can see out into the city anywhere she looks, all the skyscrapers and the apartments and the cruisers that look like little ants flying through the streets.

A dark red sofa sits in the center of the room, flanked by a pair of gray end tables that hold elegant, but simple lamps. A thin black carpet sprawls out beneath it, shockingly contrasting against the white floor. In the center of the carpet sits a coffee table with a glass surface that holds a television orb, something she wouldn't expect to see in a guest's quarters. Against the only wall without a window is a desk, gray like the end tables. A little orb—a portable computer—sits upon its surface, along with many other gadgets and tools.

Off to the side is a narrow corridor that leads to a small bedroom, black, gray, white, and red like the living room, which is connected to a bathroom. It is more luxurious than Padmé would have expected, with a queen sized bed and television.

 _Lando is certainly generous,_ she thinks before heading back to the living room. She takes a seat on the couch and turns on the television. The little orb rises into the air, levitating, and projects a holographic screen toward Padmé. She grabs the remote on the table and begins flipping through channels apathetically. She has no real interest in the entertainment, only in distracting herself.

x x x

When Lando returns much later, he is holding more than just Padmé's bags. The door opens without any knocking, and Lando's men set Padmé's luggage down on the floor. Lando says immediately after, "Leave us," and they walk out the door, closing it behind them, leaving Lando and Padmé alone. In his hands, he holds something in the shape of a card.

No. It's _her_ card, her identification.

She feels the color drain out of her face. By the look in his eyes, she can only expect the worse. Her stomach begins to turn—could he know where she had escaped from just by her full name? She can't—she won't—go back to Anakin, no matter how much it hurts her.

Often in life, one must choose others over themselves.

Padmé is very used to doing so.

Lando holds up her identification card. "Padmé Amidala," he reads. "Birth date: _46 BBY_ , Naboo. Gender: Female. Hair color: Brown. Eye color: Brown. Skin tone: Light. Height: 5'5. Occupation: Senator of Naboo."

There is a pause, when Lando is waiting for Padmé to respond but she cannot find the words to speak.

"The date on this card is 19 BBY. _19 BBY,_ " Lando says almost accusingly—but he seems more inquisitive than anything. "I looked up your name in the database, too."

That is when all the air leaves Padmé's lungs. That is when she cannot breathe. That is when se knows, with every part of her, that it's over.

She shakes her head, almost in some kind of apology.

"It said that you . . . that you _died._ Eighteen years ago, on some moon, Polis Massa. It said that you were a Queen of Naboo, and then a Senator of the Old Republic. None of it makes any damn sense, but then your photo matches and here you are, alive, young, healthy, and well," Lando tells her.

"You want the whole story?" Padmé says.

"I want anything that can explain this," replies Lando. "Are you . . . are you a smuggler? Some kind of criminal?"

"No," Padmé tells him, shaking her head. "What the database told you is true."

She begins to unfold the long, complicated story to Lando, purposely leaving out the important detail that she is Darth Vader's wife. She alters it a little, saying that the Empire is after her because she was one of the few Senators against the rise of the Galactic Empire, and that they want her destroyed. She says that is the reason why she has run to here. And he buys it, judging by the pity in his eyes and the nod of his head.

"You can stay here for as long as you need," he tells her. "We're no fans of the Empire here. Perhaps I could offer you a position? You could make money off of it and live a stable life in the Cloud City."

"A position?" Padmé inquires. "You really needn't be so kind—"

"No, really," counters Lando. "We could use someone with experience like yours in our government. You could work behind the scenes, so no one would become too familiar with you."

Padmé smiles, grateful for the offer, but timid to accept. When she hesitates, Lando goes on, "I'm giving you the position, it's settled," and then walks out of the room before she can protest.


	5. Surrender

A month flies by, but there is near to nothing. No Empire breaking down her door, no trouble forcing her away. It's almost too good to be true. Sometimes the fear comes back—it chills her to the bone—that she will be captured again and that this time, escape will not be so easy. And with the fear comes missing him. Not just the memory of him, but _Anakin,_ darkness and good and all. It kills her to think that he has become a danger, that he is the enemy. But all she can do is accept the truth, no matter how ugly it is.

She thinks that by now, Lando understands and accepts rejection, though sometimes during meetings he'll shoot her this look or move a little too close or get a little too flirtatious.

There's still a ring on her finger. She only takes it off when she goes to sleep or showers, but other than that, it never leaves her—the same with the necklace. When Lando asked about the ring months ago, she looked away and said that it was her wedding ring from her past marriage, and that her husband had died at the hands of the Empire.

(Which was not entirely a lie.)

And on the note of the Empire, Lando told her that they were searching for her—her face was on the news broadcasts, and they had placed a high bounty on her head. Lando had added in, with surprise in his tone, that the bounty was higher than most of the bounties on notorious rebels. Padmé only nodded in response: she had expected things such as this.

When he pried further and asked what crime she committed against them, she only replied, "I lived."

Padmé serves as a council member on the Cloud City Council, Bespin's version of a senate. During council meetings, when Padmé speaks, everyone would stop to listen. They seem to view her as their elder, wise and powerful, due to her level of experience in comparison to theirs. She was the one who launched a small resistance against the Empire from Cloud City and organized it. Padmé knows that one day she will have to leave, but she only hopes that Lando will continue what she started.

They would not join the rebellion as they saw it was wiser to keep the Cloud City low on the Empire's blacklist, but Lando does allow her to have meetings with rebellion officials over hologram. She serves as an advisor of sorts and helps them plan attacks, giving them more sophisticated tactics.

Today, Padmé is scheduled to meet with Bail Organa and Princess Leia— _her daughter._ She could not be happier as she sits at her desk, awaiting their call, but at the same time, the thought of seeing Leia from so far away and not being able to embrace her, to truly be reunited with her daughter, deeply saddens her. She doesn't know if it will be torture or paradise.

At last, the little hologram disk rings, and Padmé immediately presses the button to accept. A projection of a graying Bail Organa and a teenage Leia appear before her. They sit in chairs side by side. Leia wears her hair in two buns on the sides of her head and a long white dress with a silver belt and white boots.

Bail smiles when he sees Padmé and says joyfully, "I'm so glad you could join us today, Senator Ami—Padmé." He laughs at his mistake. "Sorry, old habit."

Padmé laughs with him, but she hardly noticed that he called her Senator, for her attention is focused on Leia. She looks more like Padmé than Anakin, with her dark hair and dark eyes, but she can still see him in the way she carries herself and in the defiance in her face.

Leia clears her throat. "Amidala, you've discussed with my father before about destroying the Death Star?"

"Yes," Padmé replies. "You'll need to steal the Death Star plans. Surely a weakness can be found by analyzing them."

"And how do you propose we do this?" inquires Bail.

"We'll have to work on that detail," Leia cuts in. "We could insert a spy into the ranks of the Empire? This would be very difficult, though, as we've tried to do this before and failed."

Padmé says in agreement, "A spy would be the best method. It would be wise for this to happen soon, to find someone who will fill the position. The more time passes, the more desperate we will become."

Bail nods and replies, "We must wait a long time before the spy can retrieve the plans. They need to be trusted for longer than the last one." He says the last part bitterly, like he is recalling a dark memory.

After several for minutes of discussing rebellion plans, Leia is called out of the room to deal with another matter, leaving Bail and Padmé alone over hologram.

By the way he is looking at her, with this solemnness in his face, she gets the feeling that the rebellion is no longer on his mind.

"Padmé, you should join us on Alderaan soon," he tells her. "Perhaps it's about time Leia meets her birth mother."

"What?" exclaims Padmé in surprise. "So soon?"

"Leia has been asking questions about her birth parents since she was young. But the questions have become more pressing, more frequent, ever since Leia overheard Breha and I discussing whether we should reveal that her mother is still alive," he says, "or that her mother is _you._ "

There is a pause, as Padmé is trying to find the words to say and Bail is waiting for her response. But then Bail continues after a few moments to press Padmé further.

"Breha and I have decided that we want you to tell her the truth," he tells her. "She has the right to know; you have the right to tell her."

Finally, Padmé says, "I will, if the time is truly right. But I will not tell her about her father." The last part of her sentence sends chills down her spine.

Bail nods. "That would be best," he agrees.

x x x

In the past two months that Padmé has been in the Cloud City, she has become very close with Lando and her fellow council members. There is no sign of the Empire, and that is part of the problem. It is too peaceful. Too quiet. So much to the extent that it is eerie.

Padmé paces around the living room of her small apartment, pushed off into the back, less populated part of the main building. Today, Padmé wears an elegant dress of white, pale pink, and fair sky blue, all blending into one another like a saturated sunrise. It is light, thin fabric, flowing around her as easily as air does. Its sleeves begin just below her shoulders and reach down to her wrists and hang off her arms the way delicate raindrops hang from the side of a roof.

Her hair is braided the same way it was on Mustafar all those years ago—one long braid snaking down her back and then several elaborate braids interlaced at the back of her head where the long braid begins.

And as always, she wears the necklace Anakin gave her so long ago, and her ring, too.

On her desk, there are papers, records and documents for the Cloud City that she's been handling alongside Lando. Suddenly, a hologram rises from the little platform on the side of her desk. It displays a little blue figure in robes, and when Padmé comes closer to see the hologram better, she determines that it is Obi-Wan trying to communicate with her.

"Obi-Wan?" she says.

"Padmé," he replies.

Obi-Wan begins to say something, but a frantic pounding at her door drowns out his voice. She quickly lunges forward and turns off the hologram panel, and the projection of Obi-Wan disperses into the air. When Padmé doesn't immediately answer the door, it bursts open, revealing a fearful Lando with beads of sweat on his forehead and ruffles in his cape.

"Padmé, you have to run. The Empire is here," Lando tells her, heaving from running down the corridors. "I don't know how they found you, I thought the city was safe, I'm sorry—"

Everything seems to fall apart around her, and yet she holds her ground. She knew this day would come—she just hoped that it would be much, much later. Padmé can feel everything closing in on her, the fear, the pain, but she has never been one to falter beneath darkness. She doesn't begin to panic when Lando says those words, she only nods in understanding.

She knew this day would come.

"Okay," she breathes. Padmé shuts her eyes for a moment to gather herself. "Okay."

"Okay?!" Lando repeats in disbelief. "Padmé, the city is under attack! They won't leave as long as you're here! If they think you're gone—"

"You know that won't work," she tells him solemnly. He says nothing, but in his silence, he admits that she is right.

"Lando, I can't just leave the city to burn," she goes on. " _People will die._ If I surrender—"

"No," he shakes his head. "Padmé, _please._ "

She says nothing. She only looks him in the eye with a solemn look on her face, sorrow filling her up from the inside.

"Why do you have to go with them?" Lando asks, more to himself than to Padmé. _"Why does Vader want you so badly?"_

Padmé blinks and bites her lip to stop the words from coming—she can feel them piecing themselves together in the back of her throat. But they stop for nothing.

"Because I'm his wife."

 _(Because I lived.)_

 _"_ _What?"_ Lando exclaims. "You . . . no—" But the words get all twisted on his tongue, and he cannot seem to speak coherently.

"I thought you should know the truth before I go," she explains. "I trust you, Lando. I trust you to keep that secret."

And with that, Padmé pushes past Lando and bolts down the corridor, ready to face what lies ahead.

She is not afraid.

She is not afraid as she is running past screaming, panicking people dragging suitcases and children to nearest transports. She is not afraid as she slows down her pace, nearing a group of Stormtroopers. She is not afraid as she saunters right into everything she has been running from.

They spot her immediately. When the Stormtroopers run toward her with their blasters raise, she holds her hands in the air in surrender, showing that she is unarmed. They take her by the wrists and place handcuffs around them, and despite hating the feeling of being bound and powerless, Padmé doesn't fight it. There is no use.

One of the commanders marches toward them, catching sight of Padmé.

"She surrendered?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes sir," replies one of the Stormtroopers.

The commander nods and turns toward the exit, gesturing for them to follow him as he walks down the hall to one of the platforms.

Stormtroopers march along Padmé's sides and behind her, too, making sure that she is trapped completely, that there is no chance she could get away. The commander presses the button on the wall next to the door, which slides open the moment his finger touches its surface.

The opened door reveals an Imperial shuttle, and a dark hooded figure with crossed arms and a rigid posture. Padmé, the Stormtroopers, and the commander, march out onto the platform. The moment Padmé sees the figure on the platform before the shuttle, she knows that it is Anakin, and her suspicions are confirmed when he removes the hood and lets it fall against his back.

Her heart falters a little when she sees him again, when she is forced to face the garish daylight, the grim reality. When Anakin is not with her, it is like he has become a ghost, a shadow of some sorts, always hanging over her but unable to reach her. But he is not a ghost anymore. He is real, he is right here.

She doesn't know if she can cope with that.

And not because she doesn't love him—because she _does_ love him, with every piece of her. She loves him, but he has become someone she can no longer be with. _That_ is what slowly eats away at her, what slowly kills her.

When they reach Anakin, the commander says, "She surrendered to us, Lord Vader."

Anakin nods and fixes his gaze on Padmé. It lingers there for a few moments before he says, "So, you came to your senses."

There is a pause, when Padmé is trying to hold her composure together.

"Call off the attack," she says bluntly, and nothing more. "You got what you wanted."

He looks at the commander and nods his head once. "Gather your troops and depart from the city at once."

Padmé can hear the reluctance in his voice when he replies, "Yes, Lord Vader," and walks away with frustration clear in his step, the Stormtroopers tailing him.

Once they are alone, Anakin raises his hand just enough to level with Padmé's. The handcuffs fall to the ground against the pressure of the Force, as if they are thin water rather than steel.

"You won't be needing those," he says and turns, walking toward the ramp to the shuttle, Padmé at his side.

There is silence, and then just before they board the ship, Padmé cuts in, "You can't just hold me forever."

"You aren't a prisoner," he replies simply, as if it should be obvious.

The handcuffs and Stormtroopers beg to differ.

"Then why do you have to try to burn down an entire city just to find me? Why do you have to hunt me until the ends of the galaxy?" she says defiantly. "Even if I did leave—escape—you would find me. I know that. I couldn't leave a city to be destroyed because of me. _That_ is why I surrendered."

"I can't live without you," he says.

 _You did for eighteen years,_ she wants to say, but she holds the words back.

"You're selfish, Anakin," Padmé tells him instead. "You turned to the Dark Side, and for what? _Power?_ That's _all?_ "

( _"I won't lose you the way I lost my mother. I am becoming more powerful than any Jedi has ever_ dreamed _of. And I'm doing it for you. To protect you."_

 _"_ _Anakin, all I want is your love."_

 _"_ _Love won't save you, Padmé. Only my new powers can do that."_

Yes, she remembers when he told her this. She remembers how the words crushed her, how they made the sky fall. She remembers how her chest caved in on itself. But she never believed it, never accepted it—she still doesn't.)

"I turned for _you,_ Padmé. To save you! And it worked, didn't it?" he counters. "You're _alive._ You were supposed to die in childbirth."

Her hands begin to tremble. But it is not because she is afraid. They tremble beneath the weight of a realization she had refused to accept. "If you turned for love, then that is even more horrible than if you turned for power," Padmé says. "Because that means that our love brought down the entire galaxy."

And she doesn't know if she can live with that fact.


	6. Safe and Sound

Anakin sits across from her in the shuttle. For the longest time, silence consumes them. It eats at away at them more and more as stars vanish and appear in the darkness outside the window. There is so much to say, but every time Padmé finds the sudden courage to speak, it is snuffed out like a small flame by a feeling she cannot name. Words struggle against her lips—

 _"_ _I wish you would let me go."_

 _"_ _I wish I could stay forever."_

 _"_ _I love you."_

 _"_ _I hate you."_

It isn't that she is _confused._ It isn't that she doesn't know how to feel. Padmé does know how she feels, but the emotions are opposite of one another and they tear her apart from the inside. Love, anger, sadness, fear. They wage war in her head and her heart and she knows that she will be the only casualty.

Finally, Anakin breaks the silence.

"You're wearing the necklace," he says. There is surprise in his tone, like he wouldn't expect her to wear it after everything.

"I always do," Padmé tells him.

"Why?"

She is silent for a moment: there is a part of her, deep inside, that doesn't want to admit how she still feels about Anakin. It wages war against her when she thinks of him, but it always loses. And yet, she can't shake it.

Finally, Padmé says, "Because I love you."

"Then why did you run?" he asks.

 _Because I have children to protect,_ she says to herself, but she dares not let the words reach her lips.

"Wouldn't you, in my position? It makes me feel _trapped._ I don't like the Empire, Anakin— _I hate it._ It's not you I ran from, it's what you've become, what you stand for, what you've _built._ " Everything comes out in a frantic rush, like she will not have any courage left to speak if she waits any longer.

"You don't need to fear the Empire," Anakin says. "It could have been yours— _ours,_ you know. You would have made a great Empress."

Padmé shakes her head. Over. And over again. He hasn't changed since Mustafar, no, he has delved deeper into the Dark Side of the Force, he has let it consume him. But her faith hasn't faltered, through everything. There is still good in him. Padmé doesn't have quite the connection to the Force that he does, but she can feel the light in him.

"We could still rule the galaxy together, Padmé," he goes on.

( _"And together, you and I could rule the galaxy. Make things the way we want them to be."_

 _"_ _I don't believe what I'm hearing."_ )

But this time, she does believe what she's hearing, because she's heard it too many times by now to deny that it is the truth. In the two months that she was with Anakin, they were strained and distant—one, because he was always dealing with the rebellion, and two, because most of their conversations were disagreements over his methods and whether Padmé should turn to the Dark Side.

"You've always been stubborn," is all she says. She doesn't strike up an argument, for she knows by now that it isn't worth it. _But I've usually been able to sway you,_ Padmé adds to herself. (Maybe I could still try.)

"So have you," Anakin replies. His tone is between playful and bitter, nostalgic and petulant.

Silence.

"Padmé, I don't want you to be a prisoner," he says.

"I'm not planning on running, Anakin," Padmé counters. It's a lie, but at least it would soothe his worries. "I promise."

x x x

Her first night on Anakin's Star Destroyer, she dreams of him again. But not the way she dreamed of him that night on Naboo.

 _It is almost completely, utterly dark except for the glow of three lightsabers—blue, purple, and red. Anakin stands in black robes that blend in with background, and his face is illuminated by the red light from his saber. The long, thin scar on the side of his eye can just barely be seen._

 _Two figures, a girl and a boy, one holding the blue lightsaber, and the other wielding the purple, stand before him, poised to strike. The boy has sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, and wears all black. And the girl, a striking image of her mother, wears a white dress and her hair is in a long braid. They are_ Luke and Leia _, undoubtedly._

 _Luke swings, and in a split second, Anakin's severed hand is flying across the room. He lets out scream, but neither Luke or Leia so much as blink at what they've done, not even as the blood pools onto the floor._

 _Leia turns her brother._

 _"_ _Together?" she says._

 _"_ _Together," Luke replies with a firm nod._

 _Their lightsabers cross over one another and cut sharply into Anakin's neck, immediately severing his head. It rolls to the floor—_

Padmé wakes up throwing her covers off of her body and with tears hot and sticky on her cheeks. She doesn't realize how hard she is breathing until her lungs begin to ache and her head feels fuzzy. Her hands are digging into the sheets, balling them up in her fists.

She nearly leaps out of bed in attempt to calm herself, to feel the cold floor beneath her feet and be assured that it wasn't real, that _this_ is real.

"It wasn't real," she tells herself. "It wasn't real."

And yet, her words do not calm her.

The darkness of the room seems to close in on her—it matches the room in her dream. Padmé fumbles for the light switch, but when she cannot find it, she slides her hand along the wall for the button to open the door to Anakin's room. When she finds it, her heart nearly ceases in relief. Without a moment's hesitation, she presses the button, and the door slides open with a soft hum—she's so tired and so bewildered she hardly realizes where she's going, what she doing. She only knows that she needs to reassure herself that he's okay, that he isn't going anywhere.

His room is dark except for the soft glow of the lamp sitting on the dresser that he must have forgotten to turn off before falling asleep. She can see the steady rise and fall of his chest through the covers over his body—

 _He's okay he's okay he's alive he's alive._

She breathes in and out and in and out and in again and grips the skirt of her nightgown— _it's okay. It was just a dream._

Padmé lifts the covers from the empty side and climbs into bed with Anakin, wrapping her arms around him the moment her body hits the mattress. His warmth reminds her of sunshine, like the summers on Naboo in the Lake Country. She moves closer and closer to him, until she is right up against his bare back.

Ironically, she feels safe by his side. For once in a long, long, time, she feels _safe._

She falls asleep with her arms around him and listening to the gentle thump of his heartbeat.

x x x

Padmé awakens the next morning alone and wrapped in Anakin's sheets. There is still no light but the lamp on the dresser. The room is exactly how it was when Padmé entered it, minus Anakin's presence. It is as if he was never there.

The thought turns her cold.

She rises from the bed and smooths down the little tangles in her hair from her pillow. Immediately, she begins to look for him, just to soothe her fears. Padmé doesn't stop to look in the mirror—she's too busy searching for Anakin—but she's sure that she has disheveled hair and purple circles under her eyes.

She feels heavy as she walks out of the room and down the corridor that leads to a small observatory. It is completely silent there, for no one comes to Anakin's quarters unless he calls them. The floor is cold and inhospitably hard like concrete against her bare feet, but she doesn't mind in this moment, when she is completely preoccupied by finding Anakin. As Padmé nears the observatory, her hand flits up to the japor snippet around her neck. She runs her fingers along the grooves Anakin carved into it, her mind flickering back to when he was a boy on Tatooine.

Padmé turns the corner to the observatory, to find that her fears were for nothing. They are senseless—she knows this, and yet she couldn't shake them. She's always put her mind over her heart, but this time, her heart won.

The observatory is a vast, circular-shaped room with walls that are mostly windows, to the extent that only strips of their gray color can be seen. Anakin stands at its end, staring out the largest window at the endless stretch of stars and the planet of Naboo. He must have changed, because he's wearing his dark robes again. His hands are clasped in front of him and his stance is rigid and firm. It softens the moment Padmé sets foot in the room—he must have immediately sensed her presence.

Anakin turns to face her. "You're awake," he says. He doesn't smile, but Padmé can see this glint in his eye that reminds her of when he was a padawan.

"Ani," is all Padmé can manage to say. She's nearly breathless in relief, even as she runs across the room and into his arms. He embraces her in return, holds her there for several moments longer, like he never wants to let her go—she doesn't want to let him go, either.

When she pulls away, there is worry on his face. He must feel this strange, illogical fear within her.

"Are you alright?" he asks. "I can sense your fear, you know. It's radiating off of you, unmistakable."

"I had a nightmare," Padmé says.

"What was it about?"

Silence.

"You died," she tells him at last. The words hang over her head gravely. _You died, our children killed you,_ she wants to say, but she knows that she can't go into any more detail beyond " _you died."_

"That's why you slept beside me last night," says Anakin, the realization dawning on him. "I was wondering why you did in the middle of the night."

Anakin takes her into his arms again, pulling her against his chest. She can hear his heartbeat again, can feel his warmth rushing over her again, just like they're back in the quiet and diluted darkness of his room.

"It's okay, Padmé," he assures her. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I love you, Ani."


	7. The Promise

The command center is full of chatter, until Anakin sets foot in the room. His presence seems to cast a shadow over their faces, strike fear in their eyes. Padmé knows why—she just doesn't want to fully admit it to herself. And then they begin to stare at her in confusion and shock, as if she is a strange creature they have never seen before.

"They're staring at us," Padmé whispers to Anakin.

"Yes, I know," Anakin tells her.

Before Anakin can go on, he is interrupted by the admiral. "My Lord, a word, please." He glances at Padmé almost knowingly, and then looks back at Anakin.

Anakin nods and walks down the pathway with the admiral. They seem to be deep in discussion about something almost clandestine, judging by the way Anakin carries himself and how quietly they speak. When Anakin turns to the side, Padmé can see this horrible anger so alive in his face, in his eyes. It makes her flinch—it reminds her of the way he looked at her after Obi-Wan had revealed his presence on Mustafar.

 ** _"_** ** _Liar!"_**

 _"_ _No!"_

 _"_ _You're with him! You brought him here to kill me!"_

 _"_ _No! Anakin—"_

 _"_ _Let her go, Anakin!"_

 _"_ _Anakin, p—"_

 ** _"_** ** _Let her go."_**

Padmé feels her throat begin to tighten at the memory, remembering the scene so vividly, so horribly. She nearly raises her hand to her neck, but then realizes that it is only a memory in her mind, that it is no longer a reality. (Only its aftermath is.)

 _Push it away,_ she tells herself. And she does, but it sticks to the back of her mind, just gently nudging her. She buries it, for now, but even she knows that the truth will always resurface.

When Anakin comes back, she wipes the sadness from her face and pretends that nothing is wrong. He seems too deep in thought to feel that Padmé is troubled, let alone over him. He smiles slightly, and glances down at the ground. She can't _feel_ it, but she knows that there is something weighing him down, a burden that he cannot share.

"I have to go," he says at last.

"What? Now? Go where?" Padmé asks. She surprises herself in the urgency of her tone—she doesn't want Anakin to go, just like that.

"I am needed elsewhere to handle something." He stays vague, and Padmé gets the feeling that he isn't going to tell her any specifics. She assumes that she would regret knowing by the grave look on his face. It's almost like he's asking her, pleading her, with his eyes alone, not to pry any further.

"When will you be back?" she asks instead.

"Soon," says Anakin. "I won't be gone long."

"When are you leaving?"

Anakin blinks. "I have to leave immediately, Padmé."

She sighs quietly, frustrated that he has to leave just like that and frustrated that he won't tell her where he's going, what he's doing. Padmé feels as if she is blind and walking by trip wires, like she'll fall at any moment and she can't do anything to avoid it.

Anakin turns away and begins to walk down the narrow pathway above all of the commanders, who have stopped to stare at the pair above them. But then he turns back suddenly and pulls Padmé into his arms. His embrace is soft, gentle, but there is this urgency in the way he holds her—like if he lets her go, she will plummet into an abyss and never return.

Padmé rests her head against his shoulder, letting his warmth wash over her. She can feel the stares of the commanders below them burning into her back, but at the moment, all she cares about is Anakin.

After a few moments, his embrace loosens, and his arms fall to her lower back. Just as he is about to completely pull away and walk down the corridor, Padmé holds him there, touching her hand to his cheek. She leans in, pressing her lips against his.

Time seems to come to an utter halt.

He is soft, and warm, and reminds her of sunshine, like he did last night when she slept beside him. As his lips mold against hers, soft and warm and gentle, her mind drifts off to the first time they kissed on Naboo, with the sea and the sand and the sun and the balcony—

And then it all falls away the moment Anakin's lips leave hers. He pulls away from their embrace, with reluctance. His hands move down to Padmé's, holding them for just a short moment before he says, "I'll come back as soon as I can."

With that, he turns and walks away, disappearing out of sight in a matter of seconds, leaving Padmé to watch the stars and ignore all the eyes glued to her back.

x x x

After Anakin's ship has departed, Padmé heads back to her room. She takes advantage of the fact that Anakin is gone and she has time alone—there are things she must do, as she doesn't know when she will see any of _them_ again. Padmé hastily sits down at her desk and punches in the code into the hologram call to send a transmission to Obi-Wan. In only a few moments, Obi-Wan answers, and a projection of him rises into the air.

"Padmé?" he says. "What happened? Where—where are you? Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," Padmé replies. "It was the Empire who interrupted our previous call."

There is silence as what Padmé just said sinks in.

"Vader has captured you," Obi-Wan concludes.

Padmé only nods, grimacing slightly at the use of Vader rather than Anakin. "I'm sorry, Obi-Wan. I—I couldn't run. If I had, hundreds of thousands of people would have died," she apologizes.

But Obi-Wan shakes his head. "It's alright, Padmé. It isn't your fault."

She nods. "What were you calling about last time, when we were interrupted?" she asks him.

"I was just informing you that Leia has begun Jedi training, with Qui-Gon Jinn. He has returned as a ghost from the Force only to train her, and will return when she no longer needs him," replies Obi-Wan. "Luke will begin training with me soon, too."

"That's good to hear," says Padmé. "There is still hope for the galaxy."

Silence.

These moments grow more and more eerie and more and more heartbreaking—she knows that she will have to hang up soon to talk to one more person. She doesn't want to let go, for she knows that it is likely she will never speak to Obi-Wan again after this.

"This may be my last transmission to you," Padmé tells him. "And I don't know when we will see each other again. Thank you so much for everything you've done, Obi-Wan. I will never be able to repay you."

"I have always treasured our friendship, Padmé. I would do anything to protect you and your family," Obi-Wan tells her.

"I have to go now," says Padmé. "My time is limited." Her words are shaky with tears that threaten to spill down her cheeks—she fights valiantly against them.

"May the Force be with you always, Padmé," Obi-Wan tells her.

"And with you, too," she says before ending the call.

When Obi-Wan vanishes into thin air, an emptiness takes root within Padmé. Nevertheless, she must make one more call. She dials the transmission code without a moment's hesitation, knowing that she may not have much time.

It picks up almost immediately.

Two blue figures appear before her, one in a dress with two buns on the side of their head, and the other in a simple suit with boots—Leia and Bail. They seem to pick up the urgency in Padmé's face, because their faces go from curious to worried in a split second.

"Padmé? Are you alright?" Bail asks.

"Yes," she says. _In a way, I am,_ she adds in her head. "I have been captured by the Empire." Padmé blurts out the words—they seem to cut into Bail and Leia like a blade. She watches the horror unfold on their faces.

Bail turns chalk white, and Leia stares at the floor, speechless. Words seem to hang off of her lips, but she is too shaken to speak them.

"Vader has you," Bail says, shaking his head like he can't believe it. _"Blasted._ I was afraid this would happen. Padmé, I—"

"It's alright, Bail," Padmé tries to reassure him. But she's not even sure if it is _alright._

 _"_ _Alright?"_ Leia cuts in suddenly. "Padmé, you've just been _captured_ by the _Empire!_ "

"I know," says Padmé. "But—look, Leia, they aren't going to kill me. I suppose I am a prisoner, but it isn't . . . quite the same."

"What do you mean?" Leia demands. For a moment, Padmé thinks there is anger in her voice. But it is only urgency and shock and anxiety, all clashing into one another.

Bail just stares at Padmé knowingly—he is not left in the dark like Leia. She doesn't have to explain to him why Anakin would keep her here. He has this grave expression hanging on his face, like she's just told him someone died.

Quickly, with a moment of hesitation, Padmé conjures up a lie in her head to keep Leia's curiosity at bay.

"Because I was a Senator of the Old Republic and the Queen of Naboo, they want me to fill a position," Padmé says. "They want me to make the Empire stronger with my political experience and my ways with people that they lack. I'm supposed to work with Darth Vader. If I don't cooperate, I will be killed."

Leia grimaces at Vader's name.

"You . . . you have to become one of _them?_ " Leia says finally.

Padmé nods grimly. "I called to say goodbye," she tells them. "I don't know if I'll be able to get much word out. And if I can, it will be information I have found about the Empire's plans for future attacks on the Rebel Alliance."

"Acting as a spy could be very, very dangerous," warns Leia. She sounds reluctant to just let Padmé throw herself directly into the line of fire—resistant, even.

"I know that," says Padmé, "but if I get the chance to help the Alliance, I will."

Suddenly, Bail speaks up. "Leia, do you think you could give Padmé and I a moment alone?"

Leia hesitates, like there is something more she wants to say, but then she seems to think better of it and nods. Before standing up and walking out of the room, she says to Padmé, "We will meet again. I promise."

"I hope so," Padmé returns.

And with that, her daughter is gone.

Bail turns back to face the camera. "You don't think we could arrange a rescue mission?" he asks.

Padmé sighs. "Bail, even you know that would be too risky for the Alliance," she tells him, shooting the idea down.

"I know you're right," he admits, "but I don't want to just give you up to the Empire."

"I didn't know it then, but I think I condemned myself to this the moment I married Anakin," says Padmé. The words make her heart throb, but she knows they are the truth.

"You won't ever leave?" Bail pries further.

"I will, when the time is right," Padmé replies.

"Do you want me to tell Leia the truth?" inquires Bail. "I don't know when you will see her, and Padmé, she is becoming very strong with the Force, very quickly. She has a memory of her mother, very vague, very small, but it's still present. She must have seen it in the Force."

"I will see her again, I promise," says Padmé. She hopes she isn't making promise she can't keep. "I will see you again, too, Bail. And when I do see Leia, I'll tell her. It's the first thing I'll do."

"I hope you know what you're doing, Padmé."

"So do I."


	8. Palpatine's Threat

The moment Vader enters his private chambers, he realizes with a start that he has forgotten his mask, that he is completely bare-faced and is about to speak with the Emperor. But he also knows that he can't keep his master waiting for much longer.

With ice in his veins, he approaches the holocommunicator and dials the Emperor's code. He is already kneeling by the time the projection of the Emperor rises into the air. Vader can feel his eyes burning into him from behind the darkness his black hood casts over his face. He immediately realizes that this discussion will not be pleasant for him.

"What is my bidding, my master?"

"Lord Vader," says the Emperor. He pauses for a moment, as if he's getting a better look at Vader. "You're not wearing your mask. That is strange."

"I—I forgot it," Vader lies. He feels vulnerable before the Emperor, even more so than usual, with Padmé on his mind and all of his facial expressions out and open for the Emperor to see. If he couldn't feel Vader's emotions strongly from across the galaxy, he could surely decipher them from just looking at him.

"Yes, of course you did," the Emperor almost _growls._ "Lord Vader, I have grown to be very concerned with your . . . current state."

"What do you mean?" inquires Vader. The Emperor's words strike sudden worry within him, and his heart begins to beat faster and faster as the moments pass by him.

"There is nothing you cannot keep from me, Lord Vader, you know this," the Emperor tells him. "Did you really think you could hide her from me forever?"

 _Padmé._

 _He's talking about Padmé._

Vader feels his composure waver for a moment, and he fears that everything holding him together will come crumbling down. _Of course_ the Emperor would know—how could he have been so foolish? He had hoped it would be revealed much later, when things were calmer with the rebellion—when the Emperor was not in such sour moods.

"Yes, Lord Vader, I knew the very day you brought her on your ship about three months ago," reveals the Emperor. "I knew when she escaped, and I know that she has been returned, and that she is on the Death Star with you right now."

He doesn't even need to say her name—Vader knows exactly who is talking about. It is unmistakable, especially by the way the Emperor cuts his words right into Vader. He knows Vader's weakness now. And Sith Lords are not supposed to have _weakness._

"I fear that your _infatuation_ with Padmé Amidala could bring the downfall of the Empire," the Emperor goes on. He seems to be feeding off of Vader's shock, his speechlessness.

Vader musters all of his strength to speak—especially bolds words such as these. "If she dies, I will know it was your doing."

"Oh, I know," the Emperor says, "which is why this is so troubling. You won't give her up, and I cannot take her from you. Lord Vader, I warn you, do not let Amidala cloud your judgement. Do not let her change your ways, tame your anger. Do not let her _take your power._ "

"My allegiance lies with you, Master," Vader swears. "Padmé doesn't understand yet, but in time, she will. Obi-Wan had twisted her mind, but my influence can overcome his. My love for her will not cloud my judgement, Master. It is, after all, one of the things that brought me to you."

"Amidala will never accept your new ways, with or without Kenobi's influence," the Emperor counters. "She fears power as great as ours. She will never turn, Lord Vader, not even for you. Amidala has always proven to be stubborn, even when she was fourteen years old and Queen of Naboo. She has always stood for values we as Sith reject. You cannot change her nature."

"Leave that to me," Vader says.

"If you fail to turn her, which I suspect you will, you must not let her interfere with Imperial affairs," the Emperor orders. "You may keep her with you as a . . . companion—consider it a gift. But if she gets into trouble with the Empire, if she takes one wrong action against us, she must remain in her quarters, never to leave again."

"I understand, Master," replies Vader. He doesn't like the bitter, dark tone the Emperor uses, or how he spits out Padmé's name— _Amidala_ —like poison. It makes him uneasy—no, _terrified._

He lost Padmé once. He can't lose her again.

Vader hates to pry the Emperor for answers, but there is a question that has been tearing apart his mind for so long—he can't bear it anymore. And since they're already talking about Padmé, it seems rational to bring it up now.

"Master, I must ask you something," Vader says. "You told me I killed Padmé in my anger. That is obviously not the case. Why would you tell me that _I_ killed her?"

"You mean why would I _lie_ to you?" snaps the Emperor. "Careful, Lord Vader, I can hear the anger in your voice. It was an _honest_ mistake." But Vader gets the feeling that it wasn't. "I thought that you had. Even I could no longer feel her in the Force when she was put into carbon freeze. No, I did not deceive you, Lord Vader."

"Of course, Master," says Darth Vader.

x x x

Padmé has been in the Empire's hands for three weeks. She lays on the sofa against Anakin's bare chest with his arms wrapped around her. Her head is resting on his shoulder, and her hand is over his heart, listening to it _thump_ and _thump_ and _thump._

For the first time in a long time, it is peaceful. There are no politics, no war, no running, and no secrets. Only the two of them.

Padmé looks up at Anakin and leans in, planting a soft kiss on his jaw. But he puts his hand against her cheek, removing it from her side where it was resting, and turns her face so that her lips will meet his.

"That's better," he says softly between kisses. They are soft, gentle at first, but slowly become rougher and rougher as they go on. He kisses her deeper and deeper with every second that goes by, and although she knows she shouldn't, she doesn't want him to stop. She can hardly breathe between kissing him, and her fingers are knotting in his hair, tighter and tighter. A part of Padmé wants to say that they shouldn't go any further, but the rest of her wants, needs more.

Her conscience battles with her desires, but it can't possibly win while Anakin's hands and lips are all over her—they ignite her, and everything else goes up in flames. For now, nothing else matters.

She doesn't want him to stop—not even when his free hand begins to slide up her thigh, past the line of her skirt. Not even when his fingers are tugging along the waistband of her underwear, threatening to pull it down.

"Are you—" he begins to say, pulling only an inch away from Padmé's lips.

"Shhh," she says and presses her lips back to his.

"Don't stop."

x x x

Padmé awakens the next morning completely naked, with her clothes a mess on the floor at the foot of the couch. She is lying beside Anakin, who is bare and warm and soft. He is still sleeping soundly, exhausted from last night. Padmé was too busy to check the time, but she was sure that it had all gone on into the early morning.

With her body heavy with sleep, she rises from bed, throwing the covers off of her body. She crossed the room and opens the closet, pulling out a clean outfit—a white dress with a skirt that pools onto the floor, a plunging _V_ in its back, and sleeves that cut off past the shoulders and start again at her elbows, revealing her forearms.

After getting dressed, she quickly puts on light makeup and braids her hair, not wanting to go through the trouble of brushing it or doing a more complicated hairstyle—she doesn't have the energy for it.

Padmé walks out of the room and down the corridor to the command center—and it is then that the guilt finally hits her. The moment she sets foot into the room, everyone freezes and stares at her with absolute astonishment. She almost checks to see if she actually put clothes on—they seem to be mortified, she can't think of a reason—

 _Oh._

And then it hits her. It really, _really_ hits her, all at once in one heavy punch to the chest. It nearly knocks all of the air out of her.

First it is the guilt—she slept with a _Sith,_ an agent of evil, a man who had destroyed the Jedi and countless others. Second is the horror that every single Imperial employee in the command center, and probably more than just that, know what she and Anakin did last night. It is written all over their faces.

But she acts as if it doesn't affect her, when really, her mind is twisting and turning she swears she is about to explode or crumble or _something._ Padmé walks past all of the men, clustered in cirles like gossiping teenage girls. As she does, she overhears one of their conversations.

"She's really . . . _with_ Vader?"

"She's too pretty, too kind, to be with Vader."

"I didn't know Lord Vader was capable of love."

"Maybe it isn't _love._ "

When Padmé walks by them, she can't help but turn her head to look at them. The very second her eyes meet theirs, they seem to jump out of their skins, knowing immediately that she heard every word.

"Padm—Ami—M'lady, um, please don't inform Lord Vader, w-we didn't mean it, really," one of them stutters.

"Yes, you did mean it," Padmé counters. Her words are not cold, only swift and sharp, but each of the men flinch before her.

She turns away from them, leaving them to stare with fearful eyes, and saunters toward the great window at the end of the command center. The admiral stands before it, and he bows his head to her, respectful rather than shocked. He seems to know better than the others.

"Good morning, M'lady," he greets her. "Please excuse them," he gestures to the men still clustered in their circles, "they aren't used to ah . . . matters such as these."

"And you are?" Padmé asks.

"No, no," the admiral says quickly. "They . . . don't quite know they're place yet."

Suddenly, before he can go on, the admiral turns away from Padmé, toward something, or someone, he saw out of the corner of his eye. From what, she doesn't know, until she hears footsteps coming into the command center. She turns, too, and when she does, she sees Anakin walking toward them, his black cape flowing behind him.

Immediately, the room goes quiet. He pauses in the middle of the aisle, crossing his arms over his chest. He must have heard some of the things the men had been saying, because his eyes are full of steel, and his face is twisted in anger.

"Cease your foolish gossiping and get back to work," he orders harshly. The tone of his voice makes the men flinch. They nearly run back to their stations, pushed by the fear Anakin inspires within them—Padmé doesn't like it, but she supposes this isn't the worst he could do, that he is showing some restraint.

"We have a rebellion to crush, after all."


	9. Web of Lies

Princess Leia paces nervously around the vacant meeting room in her family's palace on Alderaan. The floor is white, as are the walls, only they have silver accents that match the color of the table in the center of the room. The seats all around it are off-white, just slightly a different shade than the walls.

Bail Organa stands with his arms crossed, and with his face full of worry to mirror Leia's. Earlier, they had discussed Padmé's fate at a council meeting. Leia had proposed a rescue mission, but it had been turned down—the Rebel Alliance did not have the resources to infiltrate the Empire to save _one_ person, and it would be far too risky. Leia understands why they said no, but it still frustrates her nevertheless.

"Leia," her father says at last, "don't even consider forming your own rogue rescue team."

"I'm not," she snaps back. "I just—ugh! Father, I don't want to sit back and let her rot with the Empire!"

"I wouldn't say she's rotting," says Bail knowingly. "She'll be alright, Leia, I promise."

"I don't trust this," Leia only goes on. "I don't understand this."

"In time, you will."

Leia raises her eyebrows at her father inquisitively. "You say that like you know something," she remarks almost accusingly.

Bail brushes it off, seemingly to realize that he should have kept his mouth shut. "Master Qui-Gon can't offer you any solace?" he asks, changing the subject.

She shakes her head. "No," Leia replies sourly. "I think he knows something, though. He's keeping things from me."

Little does she know, Bail is, too.

"Father, there's something about Padmé. I can't . . . I can't describe it," Leia tells him. "I feel a strange connection to her. Like I _know_ her. And yet, I haven't known her for very long at all."

Ever since the moment Leia met Padmé, her mind has been going in circles. There isn't a word to describe it—not even déjà vu can satisfy what exactly Leia feels. Perhaps there is not any word in any of the millions of languages in the galaxy that could describe it. But Leia knows, deep within her, that there is _something_ there.

"It must have to do with your connection to the Force," Bail suggests. "Perhaps you should ask Master Qui-Gon."

"Maybe I will," says Leia with a sigh. "I don't know. I just . . . I feel like he's keeping from secrets from me. And I _know_ you're keeping secrets from me, _Father._ " Leia spits out the last word bitterly, as a reference to Bail and Breha refusing to reveal Leia's birth parents to her. The questions have only grown more and more as more memories flood back to her.

Leia always had a faint memory of her mother. Not a face, or an image at all. Just a _feeling._ Leia knows that her mother was very beautiful, and kind, but also very, very sad. And she wants to know what caused that sadness. She _must_ know, she has decided.

Recently, Leia has felt more and more. The feelings came to her slowly over time, but as she becomes stronger with the Force, the feelings also become stronger. She thinks she has begun to remember her birth father, too. In her dreams, she had a vision, not long ago. It couldn't have been _just a dream_ —it was too, detailed, too real, and she remembered it too clearly. If it was just a dream, it would have left her mind by now.

It was only voices, a woman's and a man's—one soft and broken by tears, the other harsh and _cold._

 _"_ _Anakin, you're breaking my heart! You're going down a path I can't follow!"_

 _"_ _Because of Obi-Wan?"_

 _"_ _Because of what you've done, what you planned to do! Stop, stop now come back,_ _ **I love you!**_ _"_

There is something familiar about both voices, especially the woman's, but Leia can't quite put her finger on where she has heard it before. She is convinced that the scene she had heard has something to do with her, but she just doesn't know _what._ Leia had asked Qui-Gon if he knew anything, but he said he did not.

Suddenly, Leia, with her dream coming to mind, says, "Father, do you think you would know anything about a dream I had?"

"A dream?" Bail repeats. "What was it about?"

"I think it was a vision," Leia tells him. "It was only voices. A woman and a man, arguing. He . . . he mentioned Obi-Wan Kenobi. He asked her if she felt the way she did because of Obi-Wan's influence."

"What exactly did the woman say?" Bail asks, suddenly even more curious than before. But he seems _alarmed,_ almost.

"'You're going down a path I can't follow,'" Leia replies. "She said his name, too. Anakin."

Her father's face turns as white as a sheet the moment she speaks the name _Anakin._ Leia picks it up immediately.

"Father? The name is familiar to you?" she pries, hoping that he will spill something, _anything._

"Ah . . . I—no," Bail replies, shaking his head. But Leia can see the worry so plain in his eyes and the way he holds himself, so tense, so rigid. It's like he has seen a ghost and he just can't shake the vision. "No, it's nothing."

"Nothing?" Leia snaps. "You've got to be kidding me. Stop keeping things from me! I'm not a child anymore!"

"Leia, it's _nothing! Drop it!_ " growls Bail, his voice suddenly rising. His tone freezes Leia—she stands still and shocked that her father would speak to her this way. Bail seems to realize that he was out of line, and quickly opens his mouth to apologize, but Leia speaks before he can even get a word out.

"Fine," she retorts. "It's _nothing._ "

But she has no intentions to do so.

x x x

The next time Darth Vader meets with the Emperor, he does not forget his mask or his suit—he makes sure of it. He remembers how displeased the Emperor was at seeing him without it, perhaps because he believes that the mask is what separates Darth Vader from Anakin. Padmé seems to see it that way, too. He never wears it around her due to her bad reaction to it the first time they reunited. It feels strange not to, _uncomfortable._ It has been a part of him for so long, it is alien to not be wearing it.

Ironically, it feels _freeing_ to be back in the mask, to have a detached voice devoid of emotion. No one can interpret his emotions unless they are a Force user—his face cannot be seen, and the tone of his voice cannot be heard. It is the perfect defense.

Padmé defies everything he has built, and yet, he finds himself completely unable to let her go. For years, almost two _decades,_ he had ruminated about her death over and over again. The pain slowly faded over years as he thought of it less and less, but every once in a while, the memory of her would come back around to torture him.

And now she is _alive._ And breathing. And safe. And with him.

He still can't quite wrap his mind around it.

Darth Vader finds himself completely vexed by his previous conversation with the Emperor days ago. He knew he was on thin ice with his master, and he fears that Padmé may pay the price for one, Vader's own foolishness, and two, just for having a heartbeat. The Emperor doesn't like her presence, but Vader has sworn to himself that he will prove to his master that Padmé can be turned, that she will join the ranks of the Empire. And most importantly, he must prove that she is _useful_ to the Empire, not disposable in the slightest.

It is harshly lit in Vader's private chambers by fluorescent lights. If there was any color in the room besides black and gray, perhaps it would all be washed out. But there is only blackness against the garish light, only black walls and shiny metal appliances. In the center of the room, there is a large gray circular device—a holocommunicator, the one he typically uses to contact the Emperor.

When he enters the room, he takes a deep breath to try to clear his mind before facing the Emperor. The breath is reflected in his respirator—it is robotic and harsh and louder than his breathing normally is. Vader kneels before the holocommunicator, ready to face the Emperor again.

"Lord Vader," the Emperor says, "I see you have considered my previous comment about the lack of your mask."

"Yes, Master," he replies. His voice finally sounds familiar to him when he speaks—cold, robotic. Like a blade cutting through the air.

"I have contacted you to inform you that I have made a decision," the Emperor tells him. "Amidala will serve as a diplomat, you could say. We could use her in the systems that do not respond as well to violent attacks. Her political skills may prove to be useful. At least she would not be laying in your bed all the time."

"She's not—" Vader begins to argue.

"Choose your words wisely, Lord Vader," the Emperor warns him not to defy what he says. "I have been informed of the _rumors._ The two of you are not very good at being discrete, are you? Must you have a soundproof door to your bed chambers?"

Vader is silent for a moment, struggling to find the right words. The Emperor continues before he can even begin to conjure up a response.

"Will Amidala accept the position, Lord Vader?" asks the Emperor.

"Yes, she will," Vader replies.

"If she knows what is good for her," the Emperor adds on slyly. Vader doesn't like the glint in his savage yellow eyes that seem to glow like embers in the dark shadows of his hood. "I am trusting you to keep her in line, Lord Vader. If she tries anything in her new position—well, we've been over this."

"Yes, I understand, Master," says Vader. "She will turn, in time. Soon, her allegiance will not be a concern."

"We will see," the Emperor says the words in an almost snarky tone. "I hope you know what you're doing, Lord Vader."

"I do," he assures him.


	10. Bail's Order

Vader removes his mask and changes clothes before heading off to inform Padmé of the Emperor's decision. He has become more aware of it than he has been in the past—it was once just a part of him that he never thought twice about, but now he must remember when he has to take it off and on and off and on again.

He remembers that one of the new commanders, fresh out of training, had made a comment about it—

"Guess you have to look pretty for the girl, huh? Can't kiss her in a mask, either."

Vader choked the life out of him in return.

He doesn't feel much remorse, if he feels any at all, toward those he kills out of pure spite and impulse. But he knows that Padmé would disapprove, so every time he gets rid of one of his employees, he is very careful about covering it up and keeping it a quiet matter. The men like the gossip like teenage girls, and he fears that Padmé could simply walk by them and learn everything.

When Vader enters he and Padmé's room, she immediately looks up from the hologram projection of a book she was reading.

"Ani?" she says. He smiles at the delight that sparks in her eyes the moment she sees him. It's almost like everything is fine, like nothing in the universe could break them apart. When really, he knows that breakable threads are holding them together.

She looks absolutely beautiful—she always does. Her hair spills down her back in dark curls, and she wears a dark purple dress that pools onto the floor around her feet. As always, the japor snippet he gave her hangs from her neck. He's glad that she still wears it, but it brings back memories he does not like to dwell on—Tatooine, that wretched planet, being a weak slave boy, his mother, who he was before—

 _That's enough,_ he stops himself.

(And in fact, Padmé brings out those very same things, and more.)

"What took you so long?" Padmé inquires.

Vader hesitates. "I was speaking with the Emperor."

Padmé seems to nearly leap out of her skin upon the mention of the Emperor. Her eyes widen like a deer's in harsh car headlights on a dark night, and her hands curl into fists defensively. "W-what did he—"

"It wasn't bad, really. Don't worry," Darth Vader assures her. The moment he sees the fear rise within her, he feels that he _has to_ stop it. It isn't a thought for the Empire's sake, so that Padmé trusts them more, he realizes. It is just that he doesn't want her to be anything but happy.

He is sure not to mention the Emperor's sour tone or his threat to Vader of what would happen to Padmé if she slipped up. "The Emperor has given you a position," continues Vader.

"A position?"

"He has requested that you serve as 'a diplomat of sorts,' to negotiate with the systems that have not responded well to . . . other methods," he tells her.

"But I'm guessing it isn't a request," she retorts bitterly.

Vader bites his lip, not wanting to admit it. But for once, he tells the truth—there's no point in hiding something Padmé already knows.

"No, it is not a request, exactly," admits Vader.

"It's fine, I'm used to not having any choices by now," Padmé goes on. The words slice into Vader like a knife—although they are softly spoken in such a gentle voice, they are harsh and cold and full of steel to him.

Padmé seems to notice the hurt in his face, the slight waver in his composure, because she quickly adds, "That wasn't directed just at you, Ani."

But the damage is already done.

"Right," is all he says, keeping his words brief so he can focus on holding it together. And it isn't anger that he's pushing back.

x x x

After she had slipped up in front of Anakin, gone too far with her words, they parted ways to try and lower the tension between them. When she said she didn't have choices, she didn't just mean that she had no say in staying here. She had no say in what happened to her children, where they are, and the current state of things. She had no say in being frozen in carbonite for eighteen years. She had no say in where she would hide until the time was right.

Padmé is tired of not having a say.

But she couldn't explain to Anakin what exactly she meant, so of course, he took it as a jab.

Sometimes, Anakin reminds Padmé of a hormonal teenage girl.

Padmé has been wandering around the Death Star for several minutes, maybe even as much as an hour. It is like a labyrinth in the space station—the hallways have endless twists and turns and they never seem to come to an end. Everything looks the same, all gray and black and modern. She passes by men in gray uniforms with arrays of badges and Stormtroopers in white armored suits.

They almost always at least glance her way, either that or they focus their gaze to the ground to avoid looking at her. She is used to it by now—how could they not, when she must be so full of mystery? Padmé doesn't even think that it's public knowledge in the Death Star that she and Anakin are married. They only know that they are _together,_ and that is enough to make Padmé too well-known.

After several more minutes of Padmé meandering through the corridors, one of the men stops her and grabs her by the arm, pulling her to the side of the hall. It is empty except for a little black droid that looks like a toaster with wheels screeching down the pathway.

He is wearing the same gray uniform as all of the other men do, and his brown hair is cropped short to his head.

"Who—" she begins.

"I'm the spy the Alliance placed within the ranks of the Empire—Castor," he says. His words are rushed, like he will not have enough time to get them all out. "You're Padmé Amidala, aren't you?"

She nods, but she gets the feeling he doesn't need confirmation.

"I've heard things among the other men," he says. "They say you're Darth Vader's wife." There is a pause as the horror sinks into Padmé—the spy could expose _everything._ "It's true, isn't it? I've seen the two of you together before."

She swallows the lump that has formed in her throat. "You're very inquisitive, even for a spy," she comments, trying to put off answering him for a few moments longer so she can think of a response. "Why ask me questions when you seem to know all the answers?"

The spy smiles, almost slyly. "You're stalling," he says. "So it's true, then. But I guess you don't want me to relay that information to the Rebel Alliance?"

Padmé shoots him a sharp look. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Because you could easily be a traitor," Castor tells her. "And I will always do what is best for the rebellion." His entire demeanor changes, just like that, from sly and curious to solemn and stone cold.

"I'm not," she snaps. "I was married to him before he turned, before he joined the Empire. And now I have to stay here."

"Have to?" Castor repeats. He raises an eyebrow, the ice in his face falling away at Padmé's words. "You mean you're kept here against your will?"

Padmé nods. She can't even say the words—they would fill her with too much dread.

"He makes you stay?" he pries further.

"Yes," Padmé tells Castor. "I've left before, but . . ."

Where she trails off, Castor picks up. "But he found you," he says.

"I think he always will," she tells him. "If I ran again, out of this galaxy and to a faraway place, he would scrounge to the universe to its ends to find me. So I'm stuck here." Padmé takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes for a moment, trying to collect herself. "Please don't tell the Alliance. They'll take it the wrong way."

Castor nods. "I won't tell the Alliance," he promises. "But if you blow my cover, your secret won't be safe anymore."

"You don't need to worry about me," Padmé says. "I'm not going to expose you."

x x x

The fluorescent lights in Leia's office seem garish to her this late at night, but she is too buried in her work to bother to turn them off. Papers are scattered all over the sleek silver top of her desk, from blueprints to scribbles on white. She's lost count of how many times she has written Padmé's name just today.

For the past few days, she has been making plans to rescue Padmé from the Empire. She isn't completely sure when or exactly how it will be done, she just knows that it must be. There is this desperation growing and growing stronger every day within her—she _has to_ save Padmé. It feels to her as if the world will end if she does not.

The holocommunicator beeps, and Leia drops her pen and answers. A projection of Castor, the spy the Alliance had placed in the Death Star, rises into the air. He is wearing an Imperial uniform, from the hat to the shiny boots.

"Castor, you have updates?" Leia asks eagerly, completely skipping greetings.

"Yes, General Organa," he replies immediately. "I have located Padmé Amidala, as you requested."

"Is she alright?" she demands.

"Yes, very much so," Castor tells her, but there is something about his tone that makes Leia uneasy. "I do not think the situation is as dire as you believe."

"What do you mean?"

"She is treated like a queen, here, General," he explains. "The other men say that if someone crosses her, Darth Vader will have their head. They say he practically worships her."

"Vader? What does he have to do with this?" Leia nearly snaps, Vader's name leaving a bitter taste on her tongue.

"Everything, actually."

Just then, Bail Organa nearly bursts through the doors, worry on his face. He is wearing blue plaid pajamas that hang off his body and his eyes are squinted against the harsh light. Bail seems heavy, weighed down, as he saunters towards Leia's desk, like he is wearing stones in his shoulders.

When he is close enough to see what she is doing, he crosses his arms over his chest and scowls.

"Leia!" he exclaims, his voice scratchy with sleep. "It's the middle of the blasted night, and you're sitting in your blasted office making _rescue plans?!_ I told you already, there will be no rescue!"

Her face turns hot, bright red, at her father's words, but it doesn't stop her from fighting back.

"But Father, Castor is helping me assess the situation, I can—" Leia begins to protest.

"Castor!" her father repeats, glaring at the hologram projection of the spy. Bail walks around the desk to stand next to Leia, so Castor can see him. "Castor, you listen to me, you listen real close. You will no longer inform Princess Leia of _any_ of your findings. You will report to _me._ Understand?" The stern way he speaks seems to frighten Castor, because his body has gone rigid. Even Leia can see that through the hologram.

But Bail doesn't scare her—there are not many things in the entire galaxy that scare her. His seething tone only kindles her fire, only makes the defiance in her grow.

"Y-yes, sir," Castor stammers. "I-I'll end my transmission, s-sir." He bows his head quickly.

And with that, Castor disappears.

Leia looks up at her father to glare at him with cold dark eyes. "Why do you always have to ruin my plans?" she growls. "You're not in charge of me! You might be my father, but I am turning nineteen in only a few months!"

"You may be an adult, but I am your superior in the Rebel Alliance," Bail snaps. "Enough of this nonsense, Leia Organa. You don't need to be worrying about Padmé while she is perfectly fine. She doesn't need saving. Trust me when I say this: she will never be harmed in the hands of the Empire. _Do you understand me?_ "

She does not even flinch at the harshness, at the steel of her father's words. "No, I don't understand!" she fires back caustically. "I don't understand, because you won't tell me anything! You keep leaving me in the dark! What do you _mean_ when you say that she'll be fine? Blasted, Castor was about to tell me, but you ruined it!"

"It's a good thing I did," Bail retorts sharply.

"He told me that Padmé is treated like a queen on the Death Star, that Darth Vader will 'have the heads' of anyone who would cross her," Leia tells him, using the information as leverage to try to get her father to break, to spill everything he knows. "It's strange, don't you think, that Darth Vader would protect her, would almost _worship_ her? But she can't be a traitor. I can feel that she is fiercely loyal to the rebellion, and to me. It's too weird, Father. And I'm going to find out what's going on. If not from you, then from a different source."

"No you will not," her father commands. But his decree is useless against Leia, who stands before him with furious willpower, defiance, and determination. They show in the hardness of her face, in the fire that has ignited within the depths of her eyes. Bail can see it, and the truth is, it _worries_ him.

Bail sweeps the papers from her desk into his arms and crumples them all into one great wad in his hand. He _glowers_ at them and then sighs, the anger in his face faltering.

"I'm taking these to the incinerator," he tells her. "You will not revisit this, Leia. That is an order from not your father, but your leader."


	11. To Tatooine

Padmé only holds her position for only two weeks before she is sent on a mission. When Anakin came to her and informed her that she would be going off on her own to another planet, she felt uneasy—the Emperor is surely testing to see if she will try to run, or if she will betray Anakin. She is heading off for Tatooine, Anakin's home planet. A rebellion has been rising there—the Tatooine rebels have been disrupting Jabba the Hutt's business dealings, and terrorizing homes and even entire villages all over the planet to try to force the "government," or the vile gangster who has the most power over the planet, to stop cooperating with the Empire. Jabba the Hutt has asked the Empire to send troops to help him deal with the conflict. Instead of immediately sending reinforcements, the Emperor has resolved to sending Padmé there to discuss and assess the situation, as he is reluctant to send troops if the rebellion on Tatooine isn't that big of a problem.

She admits that she admires the Tatooine rebellion's courage and might, but she disagrees with the way they have expressed it. Violence should never be the first resort.

Padmé boarded an Imperial shuttle in the morning. Before she left, she kissed Anakin in the private hanger, where no one could see him with his mask off, where no one could steal a glance at them together. The way they run around stealing kisses and hiding from prying eyes reminds her of all those years ago when Anakin was a Jedi and she was a Senator of the Republic. The memory only makes her even guiltier about kissing Anakin, about being with him despite everything he has done. It's _selfish,_ and Padmé Amidala isn't supposed to be selfish.

She could tell by the way Anakin held her that he was more than just worried—he was _terrified._ And Padmé had thought that Sith Lords feared nothing.

"You aren't happy with the Emperor's decision, are you?" she had asked him.

"No," Anakin admitted, casting his gaze down to the floor. He looked distant when he said it, like his thoughts were somewhere else.

"I'll be alright," Padmé tried to assure him. "I can take care of myself—I think I've proven that enough times."

"And I don't doubt that, but you can't deny that it's dangerous there," he told her. "Even I will not return there."

"But the reason you will never go back to Tatooine is not because you're afraid," she said softly, "is it?"

Anakin shook his head. "But that's beside the point," he said. Pain flickered over his eyes, but it vanished as soon as it appeared. "I'm sending guards with you, some of the most well-trained men the Empire has."

"That really isn't—"

"I'm not risking anything," he cut her off.

She ruminates over her last moments with Anakin as she sits in her shuttle, cruising toward Tatooine, having exited hyperspace only moments ago. The planet looks like a great sphere of nothing but sand, just a wasteland in the middle of space. Perhaps she should be reluctant to travel to such an uncivilized place, but she can't seem to wipe the smile off of her face. Ever since she was informed that she would be traveling to Tatooine, she has been formulating a plan to see Luke, and maybe even Obi-Wan, if she can manage it.

They will be staying in a village called Sanka. Padmé has already mapped out the distance between Sanka and the Lars's house, as well as Obi-Wan's cottage, if the coordinates he gave her after she awakened from carbon freeze are correct. Sanka is very close to Luke's house and Obi-Wan's—perhaps it's fate, or just luck. She still isn't completely sure about the specifics of the plan, she just knows that she _has_ to see Luke, that—

"M'lady?" says a voice from behind her.

Padmé turns around in the captain's seat to see her four guards standing before her, each with their heads held high. They are very different from the other Imperial men—they are dressed like warriors, and they stand in this aggressive, poised way, like at every moment they are ready to spring into action. They wear black suits with shiny armor that reminds her of obsidian and black combat boots. A blaster and a katana sits in the holster of their belt along with other equipment, new technology, that Padmé doesn't recognize. Anakin had assigned them to her to protect her on her mission to Tatooine, but Padmé gets the feeling that they are also watching to make sure that she doesn't try to escape. She could—she has considered it, but she is under such close watch with the guards, and especially the Emperor, that it may be risky.

And _when_ she does escape, she wants it to be clean and clever, so that she will be long gone by the time the Empire realizes that she is missing. If she escaped now, they would be hot on her tail and she would surely be caught—for the last time, she might add.

The first time she escaped, it was too easy. If she were to escape once more, there would be no third time, considering the security measures she had no doubt the Emperor and Anakin would take to ensure that she would never leave again.

When Padmé says nothing to the guard, he continues, "M'lady, Lord Vader has requested that you send him updates on the situation when you have spoken with the Hutt."

She nods, at last, and turns back to windshield to peer out at Tatooine as the ship nears closer and closer to it. The guards make her a bit wary, though the main reason for her silence is that her mind is elsewhere, at the little cottage of the Lars family, where her son is waiting for her.

Today, Padmé has her hair in a braid wrapped around her head like a crown, and she has done her makeup lightly, with a thin layer of cover up, some touch ups to her brows, mascara, pale rose colored blush, and eyeshadow of a few different shades of golds and browns. She wears white leggings and dark brown boots, with a dark gray suede shirt with sleeves that open up at her shoulders, exposing her skin from the end of her shoulder to her elbow, and then begin again at the start of her forearm. The neckline of the shirt is a shallow V, and its collar stands up around her neck, where the japor snippet hangs on its delicate silver chain.

She is elegant as always, but she has her blaster ready on her belt, poised for action.

The men do not seem to know what to say to her when she casts them away with a simple nod and then continues to pretend that they don't exist, so they just disperse and head back to their posts, giving each other uneasy glances. Padmé can almost feel the tension in the air, and it is not only from her guards.

She dislikes the idea of being watched, though from Anakin's point of view, it is justified, considering Padmé has run before. That fact does not ease her aggravation, no matter how slight it may be—she is not easy angered at Anakin, even when she should be furious with him.

x x x

When the ship lands in the Empire's private spaceport on Tatooine, dust blows all around them. The spaceport is small and clearly makeshift, with an open space looking out into the rolling hills of sand and the clear blue sky, and small shops for ship parts and weapons along an aisle from the hangers to a platform where speeders await.

By the time Padmé rises from her seat, her guards have already gathered her bags and lowered the ramp to the ground. As she saunters out of her ship and onto the sandy ground of Tatooine, they flank her, two of them on each side. She doesn't like the way they surround her, but she chooses to hold her tongue.

"We will have to take speeders to Sanka, the village we will be staying in," says one of the guards to Padmé.

She nods, and says, "How long is the trip?"

"Perhaps five minutes," replies the guard.

Padmé nods, but even when the conversation has clearly ended, she can still feel the guard's eyes on her.

x x x

Fire runs down the sky.

Striking scarlet, bloody orange, topaz gold. They bleed into one another like watercolors splashed across a canvas, like they are just rivulets of paint. The two suns reach out to the far ends of the sky, pouring light everywhere it can touch, as they slowly sink below the flat stretches of pale sand and jagged arches of ruddy brown rock.

She counts down the minutes, the seconds, until nightfall. Padmé watches from the window of her quarters in Sanka, draped in light blue robes with a hood that covers her pale gray dress and trails a little onto the ground behind her.

When the pair of suns begin to succumb to the darkness that sweeps over the land, when the sky is pale lilac, Padmé nearly springs out of her seat on the bed and grabs a flashlight from her bedside table. She cautiously creeps out the door, nearly tip-toing with every step. Her heartbeat keeps time to the rhythm of her silent footsteps, _thump thump thump._

They begin to quicken as she nears the speeder, become more urgent, more desperate. With every step she takes, she is closer to Luke.

Padmé glances behind her before swinging her leg over the speeder, and for a moment, she thinks she sees a flicker of dark colors, but disappears just as her eyes catch it. After hesitating a while longer, searching for anymore movement, she finally gets onto the speeder and heads on her way.

It takes off with a quiet hum, and Padmé is sent flying across the sand, several feet of it, within mere minutes. As she speeds off into the encroaching darkness, everything around her blends into one big blur of oranges and browns. All she is focusing on is the little white dome on the horizon that gradually grows larger and larger as the moments go by.

 _Luke._

She is getting closer to _Luke_ with every moment that goes by.

x x x

It is completely dark by the time Padmé parks her speeder by the little white, dome-shaped house, except for the pale gold pooling onto the ground from her flashlight. She hops down from the speeder, her feet kicking up a little bit of sand from the ground, and approaches the door of the Lars house.

Padmé knocks three times, her heart nearly exploding in her chest from the anxiety and joy coursing through her.


	12. Luke

The door opens with a soft _creak._

It reveals a man, somewhere between his fifties and sixties, with a scraggly, silvering beard and thinning brown hair. There are crinkles in his leathery face, all around his eyes and mouth, from age and squinting into the sun.

"Who are you? What d'ya want at this hour?" he asks. His voice is rough, gravely.

Padmé removes her hood, letting it fall down her back. "Do you recognize me, Owen?"

"You're—wait, ah . . ." he trails off, furrowing his brow, deep in thought.

When he cannot seem to conjure up an answer, Padmé says, "I'm Padmé Amidala. Luke's mother."

"Blasted!" Owen exclaims, nearly staggering back in shock. He gazes at her with wide eyes, like he has seen a ghost. (He practically has.) "But—you're—how—"

"It's a long story," she tells Owen to silence him.

"Then what brings you here?" he inquires. "Why've you come back after all these years?"

"It's been longer than I would have liked," Padmé replies. "I didn't have a say in the matter. But I'm here to see Luke."

"He doesn't even know about you," admits Owen. "We haven't told him anything about his parents, 'cept that they're dead. He doesn't even know their names. You know, this really isn't a good time, maybe—"

"It's been almost nineteen years," cuts in Padmé, refusing to be shut down. "I have to see him, Owen."

Perhaps Owen sees the fire in her eyes, or perhaps he doesn't want to get in the way of mother and son, because he then replies, "A—alright. Come in," and stands aside.

She steps into the Lars house and down the stairs of the entrance. Her memory comes flooding back to her from years ago when she and Anakin ventured to Tatooine to find his mother. The house has been changed since then, with different decorations, but Padmé can still recognize it. The hallway Padmé stands in is entirely underground, but it leads to a vast space with an open ceiling. Its walls are made of sand, rock, and white stone, and it has several doors leading to different rooms all across it.

A woman appears from one of the rooms, with short gray-blonde hair, a floral nightgown, and pink bantha slippers. As she nears into view, Padmé can just barely recognize her as Beru Lars, Luke's aunt. She has aged several years since Padmé last saw her, but she still resembles the young woman Padmé remembers.

"Owen? What's going on?" Beru asks groggily, rubbing sleep out of her eyes as she saunters toward them.

"Luke's mother," replies Owen, gesturing to Padmé with his head.

"What? Padmé? But—" Beru begins to protest.

"I know, I'm supposed to be dead," says Padmé. "Let me explain. There's a lot to tell."

Owen nods, and Beru says, "Let's go to the living room to discuss it."

x x x

Padmé only recalls a fraction of the past nearly nineteen years to Luke's aunt and uncle, knowing that it isn't safe for them to know everything. She tells them of how she nearly died in childbirth but was put into carbon freeze for eighteen years, and that she had been on her home planet, Naboo, until learning of Luke's whereabouts and ending up on Tatooine.

When she is finished with her tale, Owen and Beru are speechless for a moment, like Padmé has robbed them of their words.

Finally, Owen says, "But if you're here to take Luke, I've got objections to that."

"I'm not," Padmé tells him. "Not this time. I just need to see him. I need to see my son—I never even got to hold him when he was born." Dread closes around her heart at the memory of the birth of her children, how she faded away before she could hold them. She will never get the moments she missed back, not even if she were to have another child.

"Not this time, but next time," says Owen gruffly, folding his arms over his chest.

"He's my son, Owen," Padmé reminds him. "And he's old enough to make his own decisions."

Owen Lars's voice raises a few octaves when he speaks. "Listen here, Amidala—"

But he is interrupted when a figure appears in the doorway and saunters into the light, flooding over the planes of his face. He is a striking image of his father, but with soft waves of sandy hair. She recognizes those eyes from all those feet away, crystal blue like the sky in the secluded lake country of Naboo. And despite how bright, how full of light they are, they run her through like a blade. She can feel the fragile, frayed seams holding her together slowly coming undone, ripping further and further down the lines with each moment that passes in his presence.

Every part of Padmé seems to fall to pieces, and yet at the same time, she has never felt so whole before, like everything in the galaxy is perfect. And it is, in her mind, for just a few moments.

 _Nineteen years._

Nineteen years had slipped by her, eluded her, stolen the dream she once had—still has in her head.

She doesn't realize it at first, perhaps because she is in such awe, such utter shock, at the sight of her son, but tears are pouring down her face in thick rivulets. She stands up from her seat on the sofa, taking a few uncertain steps toward Luke. Her legs and hands are trembling beneath the weight of the questions and the feelings ripping her apart from the inside.

Was it a mistake to come here? Was she being foolish? Is she putting Luke in danger? Is it worth the risk just to see her son?

They come with the sadness, the joy, and the _pain._

Yes, pain. She doesn't recognize it at first, slowly rolling through her chest, unraveling itself. But once it strikes, she nearly falls to pieces right there in the living room. She had tried to keep it suppressed, so that Anakin would not feel how deep her agony runs, but in Luke's presence, all the walls she had put up come undone.

"Uncle Owen? Aunt Beru? What's going on?" asks Luke. His eyes avert to Padmé, and he raises an eyebrow curiously. "Who's she?"

Padmé nearly smiles when he speaks, nearly says, "Luke," but she catches herself. She realizes that to him, she is a complete stranger, and that her overly warm greeting would be uncomfortable. It is strange to think that she does not even know her own son, but this is the world Anakin—no, not Anakin—the Emperor made.

Beru Lars shakes her head in nothing but disappointment and—surrender? "Owen, we can't keep these secrets forever," she tells him. Before Owen can even open his mouth to protest, so much as move a muscle, Beru turns to Luke.

"She is your mother," Beru says.

Padmé's heart drops in chest at her words. She says nothing, she just holds her ground and tries to hold herself together in Luke's presence. Seeing him is absolutely earthshattering, almost unreal—she never thought she would see him again, let alone so soon.

Luke takes a step forward, his eyes burning into Padmé. "My . . ." he pauses for a moment, as if the words catch in his throat. "You told me my mother died. You never . . . you never even told me her name and now—"

He shakes his head, his brows furrowing in disbelief. "How is this even possible? She's—she's too _young!_ How are either of you believing this?"

Luke's words turn her cold. His voice is not harsh, it is boyish, youthful, and yet it cuts into her. Out of purely denial, she had not been thinking about her son protesting against the fact that she is his mother. She didn't want to believe that he would.

"Luke, sit down," Beru tells him. "There is much to tell."


	13. Like Your Father

Luke's faces flickers between defiance and confusion throughout the duration of Beru and Padmé's explanation. The childbirth complications, the carbonite, Padmé living in solitude on Naboo. As she recollects, from start to finish, she wishes she could tell him the whole truth, not fragments of it. But if Luke can barely handle the news of Padmé being his mother, how could he cope with knowing that his father is a Sith Lord?

He couldn't.

He absolutely couldn't.

Even if Padmé knew that it wouldn't destroy him, it would simply be too dangerous for him to know. Anakin may be able to feel Luke's connection to him if Luke was to become aware of it, or Luke would seek him out . . . .

When Padmé finishes retelling her story, Luke is silent for several moments. He just stares at her with wide eyes, like he is trying to process everything she just told him.

And that is when he starts asking questions.

"My father? What about him? If you're from Naboo, was I really born on Tatooine? Was my father? Please, just tell me more, I need to know," says Luke.

The moment the words come out of his mouth, Owen throws up his hands in anger. "Enough of this," he demands, rising from his seat. "Luke doesn't need know all this, he's a good kid, don't trouble him with this nonsense, Amidala!"

"You're going to keep the truth from him forever?" retorts Padmé sharply.

"Owen, she's right," Beru counters. "He deserves to know."

Owen Lars clenches his fists, and then releases, letting out a deep, frustrated sigh. _"Fine,"_ he gives in, glowering at his own words. Though he is reluctant to admit it, he knows that Beru and Padmé are right. "You wanna tell him everything? Fine. We won't get in the way."

And with that, Owen storms out of the room.

Beru gets up from the sofa, turning to Padmé with kind eyes. "I should leave you two alone," she says gently, and then follows Owen into the clearing.

Once they have gone, Padmé relaxes, finally able to speak freely to her son. He looks at her expectantly, waiting for her to give him the answers he wants.

"Luke, I should tell you," she says, "your father truly is dead. I'm sorry."

 _I'm sorry I have to lie to you,_ Padmé adds in her head. And she is—there is a pang in her chest at her own words. But it is for Luke's own good.

"I already knew that," Luke tells her. "Part of me was hoping that it would be a lie, though. Just like it was a lie that you died." There is a pause, and then he goes on, more curious than sorrowful. "I just want to know more about him. Who was he? What was he like? What was his name? How—how did he die?"

"I don't know what your aunt and uncle have told you," says Padmé, "but your father was a Jedi Knight. And his name was Anakin Skywalker."

Luke nearly does a double take. "What? My father? A _Jedi Knight?_ I thought he was a farmer!"

Padmé shakes her head. "He was born here, on Tatooine, as a slave. I was with the Jedi masters when they recruited him. He was very powerful, Luke, a brilliant Jedi. I hope that one day you will be, too."

"But I couldn't be a Jedi, even if my father was one," protests Luke, shaking his head. "I'm just a farmer boy."

"That's not true," Padmé counters. "You are far more than that."

"So what happened to my father?" asks Luke. "I'm sorry to ask that, I know it probably isn't a good memory for you. I just—"

"No, it's okay," she cuts in. But her stomach is twisting and turning at the lies she is about to tell her own son. _Or variations of the truth,_ she tells herself, but it doesn't make her feel any better. Instead of outright lying to Luke, saying that his father is dead and never coming back, Padmé forms a new tale to tell, one that is far from the truth but not far enough to be a complete _lie._

She takes a deep breath. "When the Emperor ascended to the throne, he took on an apprentice, a young Jedi he turned to the dark side. This Jedi became known as Darth Vader. He hunted down and killed nearly all of the Jedi—your father included."

"Nearly all?" Luke inquires.

"You survived, didn't you?" says Padmé.

Luke smiles slightly. "I'm not a Jedi."

"But you will be," Padmé assures him.

"So Vader himself killed my father? Not just indirectly?" asks Luke.

"Yes," she confirms.

"How did it happen?"

"I—I wasn't there. But I was told that Vader lured Anakin to him and then—well, you know," lies Padmé. Horrible guilt comes crashing down on her for what she is telling Luke, but she knows it's for the best. She can only hope that he will forgive her when the truth comes out.

Luke looks down at the ground, shaking his head. "I wish I could have known him," he says, wistfulness in his voice, sadness lingering in his eyes.

"He was a lot like you," Padmé tells him with a kind smile. "You have his eyes, and his smile. You remind me so much of him, especially when he was younger—full of curiosity, but strong, brave."

Luke sighs. "I just . . . how could it end up this way? It isn't fair."

"I know, Luke," says Padmé. "And I'm sorry I couldn't be more of a mother to you. I'm sorry that I can't, even now."

 _(I truly am.)_

"That wasn't your fault," Luke tries to assure his mother. "But now we can make up for lost time, can't we?"

Tears begin to burn Padmé's eyes—she turns her head away from Luke, not wanting him to see, not wanting to accept that even now, she cannot be a mother to him. She has to return to the Empire. If she does not, Anakin would be able to find her and Luke too quickly, and she fears he could be lost the dark side forever if she doesn't try to turn him back. But when it is safer, she hopes, with every piece of her, that she and her children can work together to end the reign of the Emperor and turn Anakin back to the light side.

"What?" asks Luke. "What's wrong, Mother?"

 _Mother._ Her heart throbs at the word.

"I—" she begins, turning back to Luke. A tear brims over, spilling onto her cheek, the moment she does. "I can't. I have to go back."

"Go back? Go back where? I'll—I'll go with you," says Luke.

"No—no, Luke I'm in hiding," she lies, quickly making up for saying too much. "I'm wanted by the Empire. They found out that I'm alive. When I was a senator in the Old Republic, I was one of the ones against the rise of the Empire. And they know I have ties to the Rebel Alliance, too. It's too dangerous for me to be with you. I came here because I just had to see you, Luke."

"You're in the Rebel Alliance? Mother of Moons!" Luke exclaims. "Then take me with you. I could help! We just met, I—" Luke protests.

"I know," Padmé says. "And I'm sorry. But one day, we will meet again. I promise you that."

"What am I supposed to do while you're gone?" he asks. "Sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you're traveling around the galaxy, doing who knows what with the Rebellion?"

"No," Padmé tells her son. "Seek out Obi-Wan Kenobi. He is a Jedi Master in hiding here. You were supposed to begin training with him as a boy, but your uncle wouldn't allow it. Become a Jedi, like your father."

(But Padmé hopes that her son will not be _exactly_ like his father, or what his father became.)

"But—" Luke begins, but Padmé already knows what he's going to say.

"Luke, repeat after me," she says. "'I'm a Jedi, like my father before me.'"

He sighs, and then nods. "I'm a Jedi, like my father before me."

Padmé smiles at her son. "Say it, and then believe it."

"But I can't do it alone," he says. "I can't become like my father."

"You won't be alone," Padmé promises. "Obi-Wan will guide you. And Even when Obi-Wan is not with you, I will be. I will always be with you, Luke."


	14. The Sand Person

When Padmé returns late into the night, she sees one of the guards leaning against one of the posts of the speeder platforms, his arms crossed over his chest. From the moment she arrives to the moment she begins to walk in his direction, he does not take his eyes off of her. It is like he is scrutinizing her—no, he _is._

Padmé walks past the guard, trying to act natural, as if none of her actions should be questionable. But he immediately stops her.

"And where were you going at this late hour, M'lady?" he asks. But his voice is not harsh when he says it, only inquisitive, almost taunting.

"I wanted to see Tatooine," Padmé replies nonchalantly. She has always been a good liar—she was a politician, after all—but the guard's expression doesn't change, and his gaze becomes even more prying than before.

"So you think Lord Vader, or the Emperor, would approve of your midnight sightseeing? You know there are sand people all about at this time of night," the guard says, folding his arms over his chest.

His remarks do not phase Padmé. She holds her ground firmly, keeps her face unmoving except for the smile that curls across her face at the guard's concern of her safety. Padmé reaches for the blaster in her belt and holds it up so the guard can see.

"Well that's what this is for, isn't it?" she retorts. Her words are caustic, a clear jab to the guard, but her tone is polite.

"As if you could hold off a group of sand people with—" he begins.

"Thank you for your concern, but I've gotten out of far worse situations on my own," Padmé cuts him off, slight agitation finally rising into her tone. He seems determined to undermine her, to make her admit that she was in the wrong by leaving the village, but she refuses to give in.

"We should be going back inside," the guard tells her. "Like I said, it's dangerous at this—"

But he is denied finishing his sentence once more, only this time not by Padmé, but a loud, feral scream—no, a battlecry. It sounds almost like a mixture between the scream of a human and the bark of a canine, only the roar is much more wild, more savage.

And that is when figures leap from their hiding places. At first, Padmé thinks that they are humans, by their height and their basic shape and the long robes and boots they wear. But it only takes her a few seconds to see that their horned heads are wrapped in a mask of cloth, with a pair of metal eyeholes and a pair of tubes just below them protruding from its surface.

She has never seen anything like it, and yet she knows immediately what it is by the way it roars and spears its rifle into the air. Padmé braces herself, expecting them to charge forward, as she had once heard that is what sand people tend to do upon attacking. But they stay in their group, next to the village houses where they can find cover.

Padmé is the first to react, immediately firing several shots from her already drawn blaster at sand people, ducking and rolling behind a bench by the speeder platform when a blast comes her way. She manages to kill one of them and wound a few others—one down, eleven to go. The guard springs into the action next, going to opposite way of Padmé, finding cover behind a cluster of tumbleweeds along the path.

"We're under attack!" he yells at the top of his lungs. Several lights have already been turned on in the village circle, including in the quarters of the other guards, who come running out the door still in their pajamas, armed with blasters. Villagers follow, bursting out of their houses in tumult, some of them wearing nightcaps and slippers.

Padmé fires again and again, along with the guards and villagers. She is glad she found a good cover, as most of the blasts are fired at her rather than the guards. Some of the villagers who don't own blasters have instead taken to the barns to get pitchforks and other tools. Padmé sees one man grab a jackhammer, and another one takes a shovel. They charge forward together, bashing their weapons into the sand people, taking down several in a few waves of attacks. Blood spatters on the ground in crimson pools, but Padmé is too caught up in the battle to take the time to grimace at the sight.

Only three sand people remain—two after Padmé fires again. The last ones remaining seem to realize their defeat. She notices the one on the left glances down at the bodies on the floor and the blood, and then to her, and the angry villagers. It begins to back away, lowering its rifle, leaving a clear shot from one of the guards to its comrade. The sand person falls to the ground after a blast to the head.

The final one remaining drops its rifle and holds up its hands.

"What? A sand person surrendering?" remarks one of the villagers—the man with the jackhammer.

Padmé is the first to rise from her cover. She raises a curious eyebrow and walks toward the sand person, wary, but not afraid. In her hand, she clutches her blaster, poised to strike at any moment. The guard follows in her wake, his gun held up to the sand person's eye level. His movements are more aggressive than Padmé's—all sharp strides and a cold gaze that flickers all across the sand person in close scrutiny.

The guard suddenly leans forward and rips off the mask of sand person, revealing the face of a young man with ruffled brown hair and fearful dark eyes. A young man—a _human._

"If he isn't a sand person—" begins the guard, but the man interrupts.

"None of us were," he tells him.

"Then what was the attack about?" Padmé inquires, placing her free hand on her hip. But why would humans impersonate sand people? Unless . . .

Her heart catches in her chest.

"Tell us why you attacked," the guard demands, holding the barrel of the gun to the man's head. He stands trembling, terror alive in his features, but he says nothing.

"Were you hired?" asked Padmé.

Silence once more, but Padmé can see the answer to her question in his eyes, by the way they flicker at her words.

"You were hired to assassinate something, weren't you? But the rebellion isn't known for hiring assassins. This was personal," Padmé goes on, immediately drawing conclusions. Why else would humans pretend to be sand people and attack Imperials, of all people?

"Who were you ordered to assassinate?" the guard questions him, his finger lightly tapping the trigger of the blaster. When the man holds his silence, the guard presses the barrel further into his forehead. "I said _who!_ I'm going to count—"

"Her," the man blurts out, his shaking finger lifting to point at Padmé. He shuts his eyes in sheer terror and bites his trembling lip.

"And who told you to do that?"

Silence.

 _"_ _Who?"_

But there is nothing. It is like the man's mouth has been sealed shut. Padmé gets the feeling that it is not the guard, nor is it death, that the man is afraid of. He does not look at the guard with fear, and he holds his ground so firmly. Surely, he would have tried to run by now if he didn't want to die.

"I'll never tell," the man finally says. "I will never betray my master."

The guard narrows his eyes. "Then you will meet your end," he says coldly, and immediately fires the blaster, sending the man crumping to the ground.

Pity and anger rush through Padmé at the sight. "You shouldn't have just killed him like that! Show some mercy—he was just a young kid who got himself into trouble! He could have told you everything if you had let him live!" she exclaims, her features contorting in fury at the cruel, cold-blooded act.

"What a shame," growls the guard in return, rolling his eyes. "I'm contacting Lord Vader about what just took place. I'm sure he will rule your mission compromised."

Padmé nearly calls out in protest, wanting to stay on Tatooine longer so she can see Obi-Wan, but then thinks better of it. She holds her tongue reluctantly, clenching her fists at her sides.


	15. A Tremor in the Force

**_A/N:_ Hey all! I know it's been a while, but yes, I will continue to update this. Unfortunately I've been really busy and my old computer is a mess, so I have lost many pages of writing, including documents for this story, which is the main reason why I haven't updated. I've been rewriting my chapter plan, so there may be an update soon.**

* * *

Padmé's arms are crossed when the shuttle lands in Anakin's Star Destroyer. She feels as if her hands are bound behind her back and there is nothing she can do about it. She almost always feels helpless, trapped, here with the Empire. Anakin says she isn't a prisoner, but the restrictions on where she goes and the way she is scrutinized so closely begs to differ.

She stands up from the pilot's seat and walks down the corridor the ship's exit. The guards rise from their seats and immediately flank her—she narrows her eyes as they do. Before walking down the ramp to the hanger, Padmé takes one more look at the ship, at her freedom. She does not know when she will see the inside of a ship again. Her eyes move down its dark gray walls and black pathways, glide across the curved panel of controls before the pilot's seat.

Padmé turns her head back to the front and continues marching down the ramp. The moment her foot hits the hard, black floor of the hanger, she snaps her eyes up to see that this time, the hanger is not empty. She is greeted by two rows of Stormtroopers, standing tall on either side of the pathway they form for a dark figure walking toward the ship, his black cape trailing behind him.

Darth Vader.

Not Anakin.

The hanger is empty except for the shuttle and the small group of people, just open space of white-gray walls and polished black floors.

Her stomach turns over at the sight of her husband, and the fear he inspires within his men as he passes by them. The Stormtroopers' faces are obscured by their white and black masks, but Padmé can tell how uneasy, how afraid they are, by the way they shift in Anakin's presence.

Even _she_ finds herself uneasy before her husband, or at least when he wears the suit and the mask. But she does not let that rule her, and she definitely doesn't let it through to Anakin. She couldn't imagine how he would feel if she let her guard down and he could sense that she could ever be the even slightest bit _afraid_ in his presence.

"She is unharmed?" Anakin asks when he reaches Padmé and the guards. The sound of his voice is harsh and mechanical through the mask. It seems to shake the guards to their cores. She turns her head to look at the one beside her, the guard who caught her returning to the village. There is sheer terror burning in his eyes.

He swallows hard, and then replies, "Yes, my lord." He opens his mouth to say something more, but then stops himself.

"Good," says Anakin. His response relaxes the rigidness in the guard just a bit, though Padmé does not think his voice sounds praising at all, or maybe that's just because to her, Anakin always sounds angry when he speaks with the mask on.

"You are released from your assignment, then," Anakin tells them, and then turns to the Stormtroopers. "Leave us, all of you." And they do. Every single one of the men, the guards and the Stormtroopers, file out into the hallway, leaving Padmé and Anakin alone. The moment they leave, Anakin removes the mask, revealing his face—concerned blue eyes, dark auburn curls, and a smile.

Any bit of fear Padmé had is washed away, consumed by the joy of seeing the Anakin she knows again. He wraps her in his embrace, pulling her close. Anakin isn't as warm when he wears his suit, nor is he as soft—sometimes she can feel the cold metal of the little control panel and his belt, and the hard chest guard that reaches from the panel up to his shoulders.

But she doesn't care, especially not in this moment, when everything else slips away and it's just them for a little while.

When Anakin pulls away, he doesn't let her go. He just holds her there. "I was so worried about you," he tells her. "I know you're probably disappointed you didn't get to stay longer, but it's too dangerous and I—" he pauses, catching a crack in his voice. "I can't lose you, Padmé."

"You won't lose me," she promises, shaking her head. "It's fine, I understand why I had to return so quickly." She understands, but that does not mean she is happy about it.

Padmé waits for Anakin to bring up how she disobeyed orders and left the village late at night, but he doesn't say anything of the sort. He probably doesn't want to ruin the moment.

"I love you," he says at last, and everything falls apart.

x x x

Ever since Padmé returned from Tatooine, she has noticed that Anakin became more tense when it came to her safety. It was only a week ago that he declared her mission compromised and had the guards send her back after the attempted assassination. From the whispers she has been hearing and what Anakin has told her, he is searching endlessly for the one responsible—and she can only imagine what their fate will be. The situation reminds her of when the Separatists were after her back when Anakin was a padawan and he was assigned to protect her. Only this time, her Jedi protector was a Sith Lord with a flaming temper.

Padmé does not think she will be allowed on any more missions for quite some time, or be away from Anakin, for that matter. She hates this feeling of being helpless, of just biding her time and waiting for Anakin to do all the work for her, but she doesn't have the authority to conduct her own search.

To make matters worse, the guard who spotted Padmé returning to the village had told Anakin that she had left. Though Padmé swears up and down that she just wanted to be alone without guards watching her every move, it has caused distrust between she and Anakin. In truth, he shouldn't trust her—she knows that. But nevertheless, she is saddened by the added tension between them.

When Padmé walks into the command center that afternoon, her hair spilling down her back in soft curls, her dark red gown trailing behind her, every one of the men stop to look up for a moment. Some of them fear her, and the others seem to be mesmerized by her. Anakin is standing at the end of the pathway, staring out the great window at the endless darkness of space. He is wearing his mask and suit and all, which makes her a bit uneasy, but not completely taken aback anymore.

Padmé takes her place at his side—she can hear the steady, mechanical roar of his respirator, something that used to shock her at how inhuman it made Anakin's breathing sound. He looks like a different person in his mask, no longer her Anakin, but Darth Vader, someone she cannot seem to reach. But worst of all, she can never tell what he is feeling when his face is obscured by the dark mask.

And although Padmé is used to seeing him in the suit and mask by now, she doesn't think she will ever accept it.

After several moments of silence, Padmé finally says, her eyes fixed on a point of light in space, "Is there something wrong, An—Vader?" She has to correct herself, as she is not supposed to call him Anakin in front of the others.

"There is a tremor in the Force," he tells her, his voice sharp, cold, robotic, monotone. It always sounds so harsh when he wears the mask, something Padmé still has to adjust to. "In time, it will become more than just a tremor."

"What does it mean?" asks Padmé, furrowing her brow. She does not have a deep understanding of the Force the way Anakin does.

"There is someone in the galaxy growing in power," Anakin replies. "I cannot pinpoint their location, or who they are. It is infuriating, to say the least."

 _Leia._

(And soon, Luke.)

Padmé's heart nearly stops, but she has learned to control her emotions in Anakin's presence, to close her mind. This time, her fear nearly gets the best of her—she can feel her pulse pounding in ever vein, roaring in her ears.

 _Luke. Leia._

Of course, she knew they can't stay hidden forever. She had only hoped that it would be more time until Anakin would begin to feel them in the Force. Padmé doesn't always understand how the Force works, but perhaps Anakin is more sensitive to their power due to their shared blood.

Stars, she prays it isn't true.

Before she speaks, she has to pause to collect herself, to stop her lip from trembling. "Power?" she repeats. "You mean—"

"A Jedi in training, or so I suspect," says Anakin.

"There are no Jedi, Vader," Padmé nearly snaps back, desperately trying to move his thoughts away from the idea, from the _truth_. When she says those words, gray and grave, her mind flickers back to what Obi-Wan told her in her apartment on Coruscant.

 _"_ _Padmé, Anakin has turned to the dark side."_

 _"_ _You're wrong! How could you even say that?"_

 _"_ _I have seen a security hologram of him . . . killing younglings."_

 _"_ _Not Anakin! He couldn't!"_

 _There are no Jedi. You saw to that,_ she adds in her head. "Maybe it isn't much to worry about. There are plenty of people out there who are strong with the Force," she goes on, trying to reassure him.

She knows before he speaks that her efforts are to no avail.

"Perhaps," he says, clasping his hands behind his back.

x x x

This is the only spare time Luke Skywalker could find for himself in the past week. Ever since Padmé's appearance and the reveal that she is his mother, his aunt and uncle have been keeping him busy. Perhaps they are just trying to keep his mind off of it all, but nothing can stop him from thinking about it—it was _madness._

Once he got away from his family, Luke hopped onto his speeder and drove past the Dune Sea, where Ben Kenobi, who he suspects could be Obi-Wan or a relative of his, is rumored to live. The sun beats down on him furiously as he cruises down the seemingly endless rolling hills of sand—a typical, miserable Tatooine heat. He spots a little cottage on the horizon, and his gut feeling tells him that this must be the home of Ben Kenobi. (Who else would be crazy enough to live all the way out here?)

Ben Kenobi was an old, strange hermit, or so he heard. The story ends there, as he is a more obscure figure, more of a legend than reality to the locals. But something tells Luke that he is more than just a rumor—it could not be a simple coincidence that Obi-Wan's surname matches Ben's.

When Luke reaches the cottage, small, dome-shaped, and made of white stone, he parks his speeder a few yards away from the side of the cottage. Luke shuts down his speeder and gets out, his feet kicking up a small cloud of dust when he hits the ground. He saunters toward the door, but before he can even knock, it opens.

A man shrouded in brown robes stands in the doorway. He is silver-haired, with a scraggly beard growing up his jaw, and his eyes are blue and full of kindness. He doesn't have the mysterious aura Luke expected him to have—he is not a strange legend. Kenobi is just an old man with crow's feet and laugh lines. The most interesting thing about him is probably the pointedness of his hood.

"Ben Kenobi?" says Luke.

"Yes?" he replies. "What are you doing all the way out here?"

"I'm looking for someone named Obi-Wan Kenobi," Luke tells him. "Is he a relative of yours? Do you know him?"

And suddenly, Ben Kenobi's expression completely morphs. He becomes very distant, no longer looking at Luke but staring into the big, open sky, as if he is gazing into a past world. He snaps back to reality in a few moments, and his lips curve into a nostalgic smile. But Luke sees pain in his eyes, too.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," he repeats. "I have not heard that name in oh, how old are you? About nineteen years now."

"You know him?" Luke pries eagerly, curious to know who Padmé instructed him to see for Jedi training. He had to become one like his father—he is not just a farm boy, his mother swears.

"Of course," replies Ben. "He's me," and points his thumbs at his chest, smiling almost mischievously at Luke.

Luke's eyes widen in surprise— _he_ is Obi-Wan Kenobi? He supposes it makes sense, that of course a Jedi Master wouldn't go by his former name, but he still stands shocked that the strange old hermit is the man Luke was looking for.

"You're . . . you're Obi-Wan Kenobi?" he asks. "You're a Jedi Master?"

Obi-Wan raises an eyebrow. "How did you know I was a Jedi Master? Surely your uncle wouldn't tell you that . . . let alone allow you to come here," says Obi-Wan.

"He didn't," replies Luke with a slight, crooked smile. "My mother told me I'm supposed to train with you."

He nearly staggers back, his entire body becoming tense. Obi-Wan's eyes widen in shock, and then they flicker to deep, deep concern, contorting his entire face. "Your mother," he repeats. "So you know, then, at last."

There is a pause—Luke doesn't know what to say.

"Come in, Luke," Obi-Wan tells him, standing aside to clear a path for Luke. He hesitates for a moment, and then walks into Obi-Wan's cottage, the door shutting behind him.

Obi-Wan's home is simply decorated, with a few rugs here and there and basic, plain furniture. But he is very neat, from what Luke can tell—the cottage is spotless, everything placed perfectly, right down to the cushion on the sofa and the books on the shelves.

He leads down the narrow entry hall and to the living room adjoining to it. It is a small space, with a dark blue rug sprawling across the floor, three small couches as bone-white as the walls, a tall, dusty lamp, and a round wooden coffee table in the center of the room.

"Take a seat, Luke," says Obi-Wan, and takes a seat on the sofa next to Luke, who mirrors his actions. Obi-Wan folds his hands in his lap and looks Luke in the eye, concern written all over his face. It makes Luke more curious than uneasy, though he is definitely taken aback by Obi-Wan's worried expression.

Obi-Wan looks at Luke as if he is a ghost.

"Padmé—your mother—what did she tell you about your father?" he asks, the concern rising in his voice.

"Uh," Luke begins, struggling to form the right words as he watches the worry grow stronger and stronger in Obi-Wan's face. It touches every feature. "She told me his name was Anakin Skywalker, a Jedi Knight of the Republic. And that he was . . . he was killed by a man named Darth Vader." Luke's stomach turns over at the words, like someone has punched him in the gut.

Obi-Wan nods in response, and worry is wiped right off of his face. It is replaced with graveness.

"So it's true, then," Luke says, almost in disbelief. It all feels like a dream. "It really is true."

"Your mother is correct, Luke," Obi-Wan tells him. "You must learn the ways of the Force."

"I will," promises Luke. "I want to become a Jedi, like my father."


End file.
